Penance
by Phailen
Summary: Robb learns a harsh lesson when he presents Bran with the dagger used by the boy's own would-be assassin, believing the boy's claims he would rather die than be unable to walk were nothing but talk. A bluff, he meant to call and instead, a life he helped take. Shrewd!Jaded!Robb.
1. Chapter 1

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _298 AC – Robb Stark – Winterfell, The North_

He stood watch outside the crypt for the entirety of the night after Bran Stark died.

A vain hope, a desperate hope of a boy unready to face the world was the force that held his boots in place. Hope that he would see his brother walk, complete and able, through the darkened crypt doorway in front of him. Hope that the worst mistake of his life was a jape. Hope that this was all some kind of terrible nightmare.

Hope. Hope was all he had left.

And so Robb Stark stood, motionless, arms crossed before his waist, hands clasped. A steady, carefully maintained look of detachment stretched across his face, hiding his inner turmoil like a woman painted her face to hide her unseemly features.

A Lord's face, still new and unfamiliar to him.

A wolf howled.

He winced. His jaw quivered. The façade faltered.

" _I want Bran!" Rickon bawled, shoving his puffy, red face into Robb's tunic. "I want- I want him now!"_

" _Bran is- He's not h-"_

" _I want Bran!" The boy howled. "He promised! He promised to play!"_

" _I- Rickon… I cannot make him-"_

" _No! No! I want Bran!" The child howled, each of his sniveling gasps hitting Robb as if they were physical blows._

 _Because he wanted Bran too._

" _I can't, Rickon. He's," his voice wavered and he swallowed heavily, stifling a gasp in the back of his throat. "He's dead."_

A growl tore free from his throat, his jaw tightened and his head dipped. Rickon was not here, now. He vaguely remembered the boy being removed when the sun was still high in the sky.

The wolves too, were locked up after-

 _Shaggydog entered the courtyard in a storm of growls, yips and barks, tearing through suddenly screaming people to reach his master. The sudden cacophony of sound, compounded by Rickon's wails, only grew worse when Bran's unnamed wolf made a mad dash for the crypts, howling like the Long Night itself was after him. Robb's head pounded and he screwed his eyes shut as his subjects scattered-_

"Lord Robb," a voice behind him said, raspy and dry.

He flinched. Against the silence of the night within Winterfell, the whisper may as well have been a shout.

"I am no Lord, Luwin," Robb murmured as his shoulders sagged and his eyes closed. The howling of the wolves, the bawling of his brother and the screams of the castlefolk refused to leave his mind in peace.

Indeed, it only grew worse as the night grew dark.

"Come inside, Robb," Luwin said, draping a fur cloak over the boy's shoulders. "You'll come down with something nasty in-"

"Bran lay dead in that crypt because of me, Luwin," Robb murmured, his voice cracked and dry from spending hours in the cold. Still, he turned his head enough to glare at the old man out of the corner of his eye. "I gave him that dagger- the very same dagger an _assassin_ wielded!"

"You couldn't've known-"

"No," he hissed, screwing his eyes shut. "But I should've. I _should've_ known better, Luwin. I should've! I thought myself clever! I thought it reasonable to give him some perspective! A choice he wouldn't make! A chance to humble him! To make Bran realize-"

He choked on his own spit. His jaw quivered.

"To make him realize that life is worth living," he gasped, a stifled sob following it. "But instead, here I stand, in front of my little brother's grave. Mine own hands painted red with his blood… I did what that assassin could not!"

His voice finished in a yell and the sound of it echoed throughout the empty, moonlit courtyard. Robb was left breathing heavily after his outburst but he felt no better than he did before it – how could he? He gambled and he lost. He gambled with _Bran's life_ and he lost!

Such a fool, he was. Such a thrice-damned fool!

A silence between the pair began then and stretched on for several long minutes, broken only by the howling of wolves.

It was a mournful sound, long and melancholy.

That suited Robb perfectly.

"I should've seen it," he said lowly, at length. His eyes stared at the crypt but his mind only saw Bran's demise. "The look in his eyes. The stiffness in his jaw. I should've-"

"Robb," Luwin said, his voice flat. "You couldn't've-"

"Yes," the boy spat. " _Yes_ , I could've! He looked me in the eye and told me he wanted to die, Luwin! And what did I do? I wrote him off! I thought him bluffing! I delivered to him the very instrument he used to take his life!

"…Father would be ashamed. Mother… oh, mother! She doesn't deserve this. To have her child taken from her, after so very narrowly keeping him from the fall…"

"Robb…" Luwin began, but his voice tapered off into silence. Eventually, he said: "I am sorry for your loss."

Silence reigned for several moments, broken only by the distant howling of a wolf, before he answered.

"So am I," the heir to Winterfell agreed, his voice quieter, now. "I made a boy's mistake. A fool's mistake. I've half a mind to follow Bran to the grave-"

"Surely there are-!"

"But I won't," Robb said loudly, returning anger and self-loathing allowing his mind to forget his pleasantries and interrupt the old man once more. He shook his head; the frost that covered his hair was thrown about aimlessly. "I'll live with this on my shoulders. Every day, I'll remember. I may have failed him in life, but I _will_ do right by Bran in death."

He paused.

A wolf howled.

Then:

"I'll hear the requests of the smallfolk tomorrow-"

"They can wait for a day, Robb," Luwin insisted. "They understand the need to mourn."

"I'll hear their requests tomorrow," Robb said again, his voice louder. "Then, we will review the sigils and words of my banners. After, The Iron Isles and The Riverlands. What trade we do within The North will be next."

Maester Luwin was quiet for a moment, the boy heard him shift in his grey robes, but eventually, the old man spoke: "Very well, Robb. The castle finances?"

"In between my studies, after the smallfolk requests. The preparation for winter as well, when we review my father's bannermen."

"I understand," the elder man said quietly, dipping his head. "If I might leave you with a word of advice?"

Robb exhaled heavily, his hands parting at his waist. The movement caused the snow built up on his cloak to fall to the ground.

"Your counsel will always be valued, Maester Luwin. Speak."

"Do not let this consume you, lad. Remember to live your life. Doing your duty is all well and good, but a Lord must be personable as well as dedicated. Approachable. Do not become bitter over this. _Please,_ Lord Robb, promise me that much."

The boy mulled over the man's words. "I… How might I go about doing that, Luwin? There will be whispers of me, none flattering. The Lord that lost the brother."

"Show them that those rumors are wrong, Robb. A single conversation with a man is enough to make him loyal to you for the entirety of his life. Not only that, but it allows you a break from running The North too. This was something your father learned early in his life, from watching Brandon, his brother. It is one of many reasons the bannermen love him so."

"I… I understand," Robb whispered, the idea of speaking casually with his father's banners still foreign to him. "I will try, Maester Luwin. I promise you that much."

"I am glad, Robb," the man said, grasping the boy's arm. "Now come, you've not eaten and if you insist upon working yourself so harshly, then you will need a full stomach and a good night's rest to do it!"

"Right," he said, his shoulders drooping. Suddenly, he felt so incredibly weary… Bran's death. His part in it. Rickon's pain. The dire wolves' racket. It was all so very much and it would be nice to forget it with a hot meal and a warm bed.

He stopped, suddenly, arresting the Maester's momentum as well. The man stumbled.

"Robb-"

"I cannot forget," the boy said, his eyes narrowed. "I will not forget!"

"Oh, Robb," Luwin said softly. "I had thought you were willing to live-"

"I shall, Maester Luwin," the heir to Winterfell and The North said, licking his lips. "I'll be the best damn Lord The North has seen. I'll learn names, banners, feuds, geography, numbers, _everything_ it takes to be better. To do right by my family… But I want that dagger."

The older man blinked. "It will only remind you of your mistake, Robb. Surely there is another way?"

"No," he barked. "There is no other way, Maester. I'll carry that dagger with me always, a reminder of my mistakes, of what making them might bring. And when I tire, when I wish to relax and slack off in my duties, I'll look upon that dagger and remember what happened. I'll remember Bran. I'll do right by Bran."

The boy meant the old man's gaze then, his eyes wide and his mouth sent into a firm line. Around his ankles, the fur cloak flapped restlessly.

"I'll do right by my family. The North remembers, and so too shall I."

* * *

 _A mistake made, a brother buried. Robb Stark learns a harsh lesson in failing his family before his trip south, and takes his responsibilities more seriously because of it._

* * *

 **A/N:** A few things before we get truly underway – I don't like what I've seen of the show and how they've twisted Stannis Baratheon. He's a stubborn asshole in the books but it's really, really hard not to like him by the time you're done reading. This story will feature more of the Stannis of the books, otherwise known as 'The Mannis'.

Second, Robb will be far more level headed in this story, less prone to rash actions. At first, that will result in only minor differences in the story. But as with A Song of Ice and Fire/Game of Thrones, those small differences will spawn larger and larger divergences as the story progresses. I hope I do right by the books and the show, because the way they progress storylines is masterful.

I've placed this under the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' category despite it being a hodge-podge between the show and the books. I feel it is more similar to the books, however, in that I use a great many characters the show ignores (e.g. four Tyrell children, Aegon Targaryen living, even Ser Harys Swyft will be mentioned in passing!)

Lastly, **please read the italicized text at the end of each chapter**. I'll describe any unseen differences between my story and the books there. Reading them will go a long ways to helping you understand why something might be different!

Till next time,

Phailen


	2. Chapter 2

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _Three months later, 298 – Robb Stark – The Twins, The Riverlands_

"Heh," Lord Walder Frey scoffed. "Robb Stark. Or is it Lord Robb Stark, now? Does your father live, boy?"

The man was looking down his nose at them, perched at the top of a set of stairs, in his high-backed chair as he was. Arrayed around him, a stand that might fit around a great bed stood, draped with tapestries bearing the colors of his house. In front of him, rows of benches faced the chair.

It was in between these rows of benches that Robb Stark stood, only just keeping his lips from curling downward.

His father never went to such great lengths to remind all those around him of his status. Even when dealing with smallfolk, he would meet them eye-to-eye, at the base of the steps leading to the dais in Winterfell's great hall. He never flaunted his wealth or his position. He reminded men of his status through his actions and his deeds, as a fair and just ruler… not some puffed up peacock.

That northern winters did not allow the Starks enough luxuries to even become that arrogant was beside the point.

"My father lives, the gods permitting, Lord Frey," Robb said, lifting his chin and speaking louder than he otherwise might. "You may address me as Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell."

"May," the old man muttered. "You stand in _my_ hall, Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell. I _may_ do as I please. I _may_ throw you out on your arse, should I wish it, heh."

"Some respect is due!" The Greatjon thundered, just behind Robb's right shoulder. "I'll not hear words from a craven that hides his swords behind his walls while his liege-lord starves!"

"Who are you? Some barbarian? Heh. Mayhaps you bred a little too much savage into this one, Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell. He speaks out of turn, that he does. That he does."

"Peace, Greatjon," Robb said quickly, glancing back at the man, a frown on his face. He knew what Lord Walder Frey lacked in manners, he made up for in ego. He hoped that the Greatjon would anger the man somewhat before they settled down to negotiate the passage of his army south but he misjudged just how… _vile_ the Lord of the Twins truly was.

Puffed up peacock indeed.

"My men are as disciplined a force you'll ever find, Lord Frey, worry not."

"Heh," the old man scoffed, waving his hand. Out of one of the corners of the room, a young lass darted forward. She held a simple plate of bread and cheese. "Eat then. Savor it. You'll not get more from me until we've discussed your toll."

"The ungrateful arse," The Greatjon seethed, seizing a chunk of the bread after Robb took his. The force with which he did so staggered the girl, thin and wispy as she was. Still, her face was pretty enough.

Lord Roose Bolton, standing just behind Robb's left shoulder and silent as the night, took his bread and the girl retreated shortly thereafter. Their guard had been held up at the gates of The Twins' northern tower, only the three northmen remained to treat with Lord Frey.

"Do you like the sight of my daughter, Robb Stark, Heir to Winterfell? I have many. You can have your choice, of course, methinks you'll be a Lord before long."

The Greatjon stiffened so quickly that he knocked one of the benches aside, such was the man's bulk. "I'll not hear another foul word against Lord Stark, understand cretin!? You and your shite family have no right! Yer only claim to greatness is a damned bridge!"

"A bridge you wish to cross, savage," Walder Frey muttered, leaning forward in his chair, his robes hanging loosely about his hunched frame. "Three Kings and just as many Queens have guested in my towers. Can you say the same?"

"Piss on your bridge. And piss on your family too, the lot of them!"

The Late Lord Walder Frey snarled and Robb struggled not to smile. He was relieved to see that his mother was correct about the Frey Lord – insults and gloating truly were his area of comfort.

If only she were here with him now - Robb would have been far more comfortable with her behind him than he was with Roose Bolton of the Dreadfort. The Lady Stark had wanted to return to Winterfell as fast as she could, though, given his… blunder.

His failure, rather. The dagger hidden under his mail and leather and cloth shirts spoke of nothing but.

Robb did not blame his mother for wishing to return. She only had one son left after him, now; he sent her off with twenty of his best swords and turned his attentions to The Twins with the full might of The North at his back.

A fair amount more than twenty thousand men, that might was. The number of men under his command made his knees weak to think about.

But duty and purpose straightened his back where his confidence failed him.

He gathered his father's men and women and led them south for a reason. A reason he needed to stick to, lest his army see him falter.

For where his will weakened, so too would that of his army, Luwin said.

"If you think I'll marry off one of my kin to this savage, boy, then you're sadly mistaken!"

"Who'd want one of your-!"

"Greatjon," Robb barked.

It was a testament to the man's new-found loyalty to him that he fell silent. Never before had he been so proud of Grey Wind for taking two of the massive man's fingers.

"My apologies, Lord Frey," he said, once the hall fell quiet. The smile he attempted to summon did not quite come, but the old man huffed and leaned back into his chair all the same, placated. "The woman who brought us guest right, she was very comely."

"Heh," The Lord of The Twins said, shifting in his high-backed chair. "Pretty face. Not too sickly. Wide hips, she'll do nicely for a wife. You seek a wife, boy? A pretty thing to warm your bed?"

"Nay, Lord Frey, but-"

"Then why have you come before me? Your army is large. Costly to get across the bridge. Upsetting to my daughters. Anything less than your-"

"Do you know of Moat Cailin, Lord Frey?"

The man spat on the ground. "You'll give me a decrepit castle as toll, Robb Stark? You waste my time!"

"I assure you, I do not."

The man's eyes narrowed and he slouched in his chair. A moment of silence washed over the miniature throne room, broken only by The Greatjon's heavy breathing and the rustling of Lord Bolton's pink cloak.

The hall was a musty place, dull and dingy, Robb noted. It was small and cluttered, filled with benches and candles and armoires that did not belong, each one of different make and design. The result of collecting tolls from varying groups of people, no doubt. There was even some ironwood, the likes of which The North made the most of their profits from harvesting.

"Speak then," Lord Frey rumbled, waving his hand at Robb. "And quickly! I'll not take ruins as the price of your army crossing my bridge! Ruins are useless to me."

"Not ruins," the Heir to Winterfell responded. "Not for long."

The Greatjon shuffled behind him, restless, even as Lord Bolton ceased moving entirely.

Robb Stark liked to think he was no longer a fool. He was fairly certain that he knew what lay in store for his father in King's Landing with the likes of Joffrey Baratheon as King. He and Maester Luwin had spoken of it at length before he left Winterfell, the need to march south, and the position and endgame of the Lannisters.

The unstable boy sitting the Iron Throne now would no doubt sentence his father to The Wall after whatever farce of a trial he was forced to undergo – because Eddard Stark _would not_ have committed treason of any kind against Robert Baratheon!

But with his father on the wall, that would leave Robb Stark as Lord of Winterfell, Warden and Lord Protector of the North. He would need a wife in short order to secure his line, lest he die in battle and leave all his responsibilities to Rickon, and that wife would have to come from a northern family. Anything less would displease his future Lords, given Robb's own mother was of the south.

Thus, his marriage could not be a bargaining chip in crossing The Twins, but the future Lady of Moat Cailin could… Robb planned to give it to one of the families slighted by his choice for the Lady of Winterfell. A family that was overlooked.

Even further, he planned on funding the reconstruction of the run down castle with the spoils he would win in this… war. A gamble if he ever knew one, but then, if he lost this war, he would likely be dead or in chains. Thus, he worked with the assumption that he would _win_.

And when he won, he would have gold aplenty to rebuild Moat Cailin. He planned on repurposing his army's food carts to carry it and already he had two and twenty trustworthy men and women picked out that he would assign to guard the precious metal. Of course, for all his plans on howhe would spend the gold, the details of just howhe would _get it_ were still vague and needed quantifying. After he lifted the siege on Riverrun and dealt with the Lannisters, that would be his next goal, alongside rescuing his sisters from the capital.

A ledger of intimidating tasks, no doubt.

He could not help but feel overwhelmed by it. The same way he felt about taking on the duties of Lord of Winterfell when his father went south so many months ago.

But Robb Stark rose to the challenge of being a Lord then, and so too would he rise to the challenge of leading an army now.

He _would not_ fail The North.

"Once this business with my father is settled, Moat Cailin will be rebuilt," he said, refocusing his attentions on the conversation at hand. "I ask that you provide a Northman of my choosing with a wife; her dowry will be three hundred guardsmen and just as many smallfolk to populate the keep and its lands."

Walder Frey remained silent for several moments, his knuckles white with the pressure they squeezed the chair's armrests.

Then: "You've not the authority to order something like that, Robb Stark."

"A castle for a crossing, Lord Frey."

"Bah!" The man scoffed, throwing a hand up in the air. "You waste my time! Useless promises! Promises you cannot uphold! Leave! Out! You'll marry a Frey daughter or you'll not cross!"

"Very well, Lord Frey. We shall take our leave."

The old man's face slackened and his shoulders slumped for a brief moment but the loss of composure was gone just as quickly as it appeared. "Fine, then! When you return, you'll not get a single piece of rotten bread out of me!"

And so they left, he and The Greatjon and Roose Bolton. It did not take them long to leave the confines of the stout castle and rejoin with their guard – a force of Stark, Umber and Bolton men one hundred strong. As they exited The Twins, the might of the North stretched out in front of them – none of the men and women were camped, but merely stood in loose formation, just as Robb had ordered.

He wanted them ready to move at a moment's notice.

"Was that wise?" Roose said, his voice low and barely audible over the rushing waters of the Green Fork below them.

Robb suppressed a shudder. Bringing Lord Bolton along with him to meet with Frey was a calculated risk, especially considering the history between the two most powerful houses in the North. Lord Bolton was a man that put himself and his family first, Maester Luwin had told him so, even to the detriment of House Stark.

The Heir to Winterfell was dumbfounded to learn that, but Luwin had no less than a dozen accounts where Roose Bolton had outwitted his father. From instances as small as chopping all the trees down in a disputed piece of land before Eddard claimed it to occurrences as large as weaseling his way out of answering for missing carts of food that passed through his land.

It disturbed him to learn the world was not as orderly and honorable as he thought.

Still, it was a lesson well learnt.

Robb was not certain that he could outwit the man, not yet, not without knowing him well enough to predict him. Instead, he was forced to prove his worth to House Bolton, to show that he was useful enough to follow.

At least through the end of this war.

It was a balancing act that he felt he should not need to play – House Bolton was sworn to House Stark, after all – but an act that was required of him nonetheless.

"Aye," The Greatjon said slowly, begrudgingly, as though it pained him to agree with Roose Bolton. "Yeh can't go promising things best left up to yer father, lad."

"My father has been accused of treason," Robb said, continuing quickly even as The Greatjon sucked in a breath. "I know he is innocent. He would never betray Robert Baratheon. But the capital is in Lannister hands, now, and they'll find a way to betray him as they wish he did them."

"Bah! As if I'll let some runt tell me my Liegelord is guilty of treason!"

"That runt is your King," Robb said, frowning. The thought of it soured his mood. The thought of his sisters and his father being the boy's prisoners soured it further. "He is a boy as green as he is dull but he has power and power matters. He'll sentence my father to The Wall and my father will have no choice but to go.

"It is not honorable. It is not just. It is not how it should be but it is how it _is_ ," Robb continued, spinning on his heel to face The Greatjon. The man had nearly an entire head on him and his shoulders were heaving. The sight was incredibly intimidating but if he stopped here then what respect he had gained would be lost.

"That leaves Winterfell to me, Lord Umber. I do not like damning my father to the whims of an ungrateful _shite_ with a crown too heavy for his head but I have no choice! I must plan for the future of The North. To that end, I plan to give Moat Cailin to the son of a northern family slighted by being passed over when I choose my wife from one of my bannermen."

The Greatjon's eyes widened and, beside him, Roose Bolton's pale eyes swiveled to focus upon Robb, instead of the armies at his back.

"I will marry within The North and use The Frey bride's dowry to begin repairing Moat Cailin. I buy the loyalty of the Freys – fleeting though it may be – and please two Lords of the North with one choice. Do you see, now?"

"Aye," Lord Umber said slowly, his head cocked. He was staring hard at Robb Stark, as though seeing him for the first time in many years; the same look came upon his father's face when he spied King Robert in Winterfell. "I follow, lad."

"A well-thought plan," Lord Bolton allowed, hands clasped behind his back. "If only Lord Frey would have agreed to it."

Robb smiled a grim smile, one that was half a smirk and half a sneer. "Lord Frey is a man whose ego is only outdone by his greed. You looked upon him before we left. You watched his composure break. He expected me to agree to his demands. The army will only march for a quarter of a day down the river before we receive riders from The Twins, calling us back."

Suddenly, the lack of tents and campfires within the army's ranks seemed all the more obvious.

"You had them ready to march all along," The Greatjon murmured, a shocking change in his usually boisterous voice.

Robb did not answer, instead he turned on his heel and stalked off toward his army. Within his cloak, his hand lay over his breastplate, where the handle of the knife rested against his skin. Bran's knife.

This time, his bluff would not be called, he was sure of it.

Indeed, the Frey messengers ended up catching them before they took their first break, apologies on their lips and offers of renegotiation on their tongues. By nightfall, the northern army was leaving the southern castle of The Twins, bolstered by two thousand Frey men and marching with wishes of good fortune pulled only by feigned courtesy from the lips of The Late Lord Walder Frey.

The Greatjon would go on to call it his first victory in the war, a wide grin on his face.

That he always managed to be near Frey bannermen when he did so did not escape Robb in the slightest.

* * *

 _One month later, 298 – Robb Stark – Lord Harroway's Town, The Riverlands_

The command tent was large and stiflingly hot this far south. It did not suit Robb in the slightest, given it felt a great many times hotter in his armor than the glass gardens of Winterfell ever did in his furs. Still, he endured, for around the massive round table within the tent were arrayed his Lords and Ladies. Men and women tried and true, each having humored him and his campaign of subterfuge that he started after crossing The Twins. A campaign that would hopefully pay its dividends by the day's end.

Once south of the Frey's castle and with the whole of his army at his back, he made an effort to visit every town and village and keep on his way to Riverrun. They stopped first at Seaguard and then at Fairmarket; riders were sent off to every hamlet in sight, too. Robb made certain that every smallfolk who looked upon his army knew that he was making haste for the Tully's castle and looking for every able-bodied man to defend his liegelord that he could find. He even led his army in a southwesternly direction for a time after leaving Fairmarket, to truly make it seem like he was heading toward Riverrun.

But after a day's march he turned his army around and instead crossed the Red Fork, moving southeast, toward the point at which the Red Fork, the Green Fork and the Blue Fork met in the hopes that he would find Tywin Lannister moving to reinforce his son, Jaime Lannister, at Riverrun.

And he did.

The boy – for he had only seen fifteen namedays – sighed deeply. Umber. Glover. Mormont. Bolton. Karstark. Even Flint and Wull and Norrey of the mountain clans. He had Mallisters and Freys and every peasant brave enough to fight in the Riverlands.

In all, his men numbered close to twenty-six thousand, now. Eight thousand of that number was mounted atop horses, lightly or heavily armored.

"The Mountain That Rides has left with the horse of the Lannister force to reinforce the siege at Riverrun," Robb said, his voice loud and as certain as he could will it. This would be his first battle and no matter the amount of forethought he put into it, he could not help but be nervous. "That leaves them with half our number in foot trailing behind. That is our target."

Around the table men and women murmured and shifted, each eager in their own way. Roose Bolton let nothing show on his face, standing with his arms crossed and his pale eyes narrowed. The Greatjon beat his meaty fist on the table and Rickard Karstark smiled a small smile. Maege Mormont laughed under her breath. Jason Mallister leaned forward to observe the map that lay spread upon the table.

' _If only Jon were here,'_ Robb thought, closing his eyes for a brief moment. Theon was still with him but he missed his half-brother dearly. He missed his father dearly. Even the presence of his mother or one of his sisters would be comforting.

He was alone with Grey Wind and Bran's dagger.

He opened his eyes in a glare.

He would not have the comfort of family. Not here, not now. He was on his own in this campaign, with only men and women he did not know to keep him company. That was changing – every day, he learned more of those he led – but they were not family. Not yet.

"We move once night falls," he continued. "The Greatjon and Lady Mormont will lead the van, five thousand of our horse, around the Lannister force to take them in the rear. The rest of the army will be waiting ahead of them. Lord Karstark will command the left flank, Lord Mallister the right. Lord Bolton will take the center."

"The men will be tired from a night march," Galbart Glover cautioned. He stood on the other side of Maege Mormont, to Robb's left.

At the same time, the Lords of the Mountain Clans – Norrey, Wull and Liddle, Robb noted – began shouting over one another for the right to lead the men. The Greatjon immediately began shouting them down and, suddenly, the tent was thrown into a cacophony of voices.

Robb growled under his breath and decided there that he would place Roose Bolton near him at every meeting from then on. Unsettling though the man's presence was, he still held his silence even now and for that, at least, the Heir to Winterfell was grateful.

Nonetheless, he had to do something about the noise, lest they be heard all the way in King's Landing.

That in mind, he turned around, to where Grey Wind was lying on a large pelt in a corner of the tent. The direwolf was growing swiftly, now standing even with Robb's own shoulder; he was already a sight to be afeared.

' _Howl,'_ Robb thought. _'Howl.'_

At first, the wolf did nothing, only stared back at him. But, slowly and languidly, as if the cacophonous noise his Lords were making bothered him not in the slightest, the predator raised himself up.

Then, abruptly, he threw his already massive head back and let loose a howl so loud it silenced even The Greatjon.

"I am not unreasonable," Robb said lowly once shocked silence reigned. "I've placed no Flints or Wulls with Tallharts or Dustins. I've separated the Liddles and the Norreys and made certain the Manderlys were placed with the Mallisters. You'll find no Mormonts next to any Glovers nor any Flints next to any Umbers, the gods take that forsaken rivalry."

Robb paused then, eyeing The Greatjon first, then Lady Maege Mormont, Lord Galbart Glover and each Lord or Lady after them around the table. None spoke, though all met his eyes.

"We will win this battle," he continued, nodding as he thrust his finger toward Lord Harroway's Town on the map. "We will route Tywin Lannister's foot then take The Mountain That Rides and Jaime Lannister from the rear as they siege Riverrun, looking north for our armies when we approach from the east.

"You have your commands. I'll lead what remains of our horse and keep at bay what remains of theirs. It is a solid battle plan. Follow it, and we will taste Lannister wine tomorrow, brothers and sisters."

"Here, here!" The Greatjon roared, beating his chest. Stirred by his excitement, The Flint of the mountain clan with the same name began to whoop and holler too.

In short order, the tent was filled with yelling and hollering once more. This time, though, they were sounds of celebration, rather than petty arguments.

Robb only hoped that they could cheer after the night was through, for his first battle would be judged by the rest of the world as a measuring stick of his value as a commander. He sincerely hoped it did not turn out to be a failure, Mace Tyrell – _'Highgarden. Golden rose. Exports: grains, livestock, silks. Populous region. Three sons and a daughter. '_ – failed in his attempt to starve out Stannis Baratheon at the end of Robert's Rebellion and he still carried with him that failure to this day.

In the end, all he could do was hope.

Hope was all he had.

* * *

 _Catelyn Stark traveled north, to Winterfell, instead of south, with her eldest son after learning of Bran's untimely death. Thus, a properly prepared Robb is forced to barter with Lord Walder Frey himself and in doing so, extracts a different agreement from the man. An agreement that leaves him free to take his wife from a northern house._

 _Prepared and learned on the Lannisters through his lessons with Maester Luwin and away from his mother's influencing voice, Robb chooses strategic value over sentiment in targeting the bulk of the lion army over freeing his mother's family sooner. He aims to rout Tywin Lannister's host over chasing off Jaime Lannister from Riverrun's walls. His army is never split in two._

* * *

 **A/N:** Here we are, chapter two of Penance! The War of Five Kings has started to get under way and Robb is testing his feet as a child leader. Where shall we go from here?

I'm thinking I'll post a chapter every other Saturday, so be on the look-out for the next one come December 1.

And for those of you celebrating next week, Happy Thanksgiving!

Till next time,

Phailen


	3. Chapter 3

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

 _Later that night, 298 – Robb Stark – Lord Harroway's Town, The Riverlands_

The Culling at Harroway, as it would later be called, lasted only a few short hours. Robb rode with the sons and daughters of his lords, Smalljon and Dacey Mormont and the Karstark brothers and many more besides. Together, the new blood of The North experienced their first combat.

His foot had marched through part of the night and were weary by the time they reached the Lannister's encampment but they fought well. The lions were as ready for them as they could be – they managed to form somewhat decent lines by the time Northern swords reached them – but without the horse that The Mountain took to Riverrun, they were at a severe disadvantage.

That was clearly obvious to Lords Tywin and Kevan Lannister though. Robb saw them both at a distance while his mounted force harried the left flank of the red army; they were trying, mostly successfully, to organize a retreat over The River Fork, across a bridge more easily defended than the open terrain his army had caught them upon.

For a time, it seemed they would succeed – the foot soldiers clashed repeatedly, until the grass was painted red with blood and Robb's memories all blurred together of one skirmish after another – but then _his_ horse arrived.

The Northern horse.

And what a beautiful sight it was, The Greatjon and Lady Mormont charging out of the darkness, into the Lannister army's rear.

The battle had progressively moved closer and closer to the river as the lions retreated, as such, they were fully out of the tents and firepits when the heavy horse hit them.

There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Open plains enshrouded in darkness stretched in all directions and the Lannisters' salvation – The River Fork – remained still an hour away by foot.

The horse – most of Robb's heavy cavalry, for the light horse was with him and his guard – hit the center formation of the army hard. And when they did a cheer rose up among the Northmen and the Rivermen that pushed at the same formation from the front. Those unfortunate enough to be caught between the two Northern forces died quickly and broke just as swift.

Robb and his companions took Kevan Lannister as their prisoner when they charged into the breaking lines of the lions.

His first captive of the war.

After the army was broken and scattered, The Greatjon and Lady Mormont took their horse to the left flank, the one he had been harrying all night. It broke just as quickly as the center.

Now in the midst of a rout, it was all Robb could do to try and keep order. All around him, men and women ran, their swords slashing through the air and shouts of exuberance escaping their lips.

"Victory, Lord Robb! Victory!" The Smalljon hollered next to him. "The Lannister army was no match for The North!"

"I'll drink to that!" A voice like to belong to Torrhen Karstark yelled, somewhere behind him.

"To me!" Robb yelled, glancing about himself, Grey Wind barking at his side. The night was dark and he could scarcely make out the faces of his companions. He saw sparks fly from clashing steel all about him in the distance and the corpses of dying men and women on the ground around him.

Many of them wore Frey colors, a sight he expected, given they were to be placed at the front of the center flank, under Roose Bolton's command.

He did not trust Lord Walder Frey one bit, the man had a history of weaseling his way out of payments and favors and even vows – because his lack of effort in freeing Riverrun tread dangerously close to treason - so his men were granted the same suspicion by association.

"To me!" he yelled again. Watching this time as his companions formed up around him, the Riverlands horse among them anxiously kneading the ground at the sight of Grey Wind. Dacey Mormont. Torrhen Karstark. Robin Flint. Wendel Manderly. Patrek Mallister. Smalljon Umber. Rickard Liddle. Jorelle Mormont. The rest were lost to the night or – though he hoped it was not true – to the battle itself. "We've got ourselves one Lannister, lads! Let's get ourselves their Lord!"

His companions cheered and he turned his warhorse back to the battle. The center and left formations of the Lannister army were broken and being hounded by his men, but the right flank was still whole and retreating, untouched by Lady Mormont and The Greatjon's surprise attack.

It was toward that flank he rode, his banners – carried by his squire, Beren Tallhart, a boy of eleven namedays – calling more of his horse to him. Heavy cavalry, light cavalry, men and women from every part of the battle, drawn by The Smalljon's warhorn.

Soon, his original eight consisted of no less than several hundred. He led this force into the right flank of the Lannister army without hesitation.

They saw him coming, of course, harried though they were by his foot at the front, their commander was still skilled enough to get the men to form lines to face his attack. Something like resentment tore at Robb and his tired bones – he wanted this battle _done_ – but he did not give into the urge to rout the flank entirely. He did not have the numbers for that. He could only harry the men near his own foot, easing the efforts of Lord Jason Mallister and the men he commanded for The North and The Riverlands.

One turn. Two turns. Three. Four. Five.

They bled together, flowing seamlessly between the one in the past and the next, just as the battle had. Before long, he lost count of how many times he led his horse into the side of the flank, dropping dozens of men with each pass. The Lannisters were disciplined, though – they held together under the combined assault of his horse and his foot. Even took a solider or two for every dozen of theirs' that fell.

Part of Robb admired that. He did not want to find out how he would handle a retreat. Hopefully, he would never have to order one.

But then, the monotony of the battle was upset by the thundering of The Greatjon's heavy horse behind him.

The Lannister army swarmed and men scrambled to face the heavy cavalry quickly approaching them. Shield walls were formed. Pikemen were pulled away from Robb's horse. Men sprinted every which way and – in a lapse of battlefield command – a path opened in front of him.

No spears pointing up at him. No pikemen jabbing at his horse. No shields to stop him.

"Forward! Charge!" He howled, thrusting his sword forward and kicking his tired warhorse into a gallop. Grey Wind howled and barked just as a rallying cry echoed behind him and the pounding of hooves on the ground followed him.

He cut a path through the Lannister ranks, straight through the center. Men fell to his blade left and right, their faces jumping up at him out of the darkness, only to be swallowed up again as they fell to the ground, dead. His direwolf tore out throats and took men to the ground where they were trampled by the horses. For minutes, at least, he rode through the Lannisters. Foote. Payne. Lorch. Lydden. Prester. Sarsfield. So many banners, so many colors and tabards and sigils. Some, he knew. Some, he did not. All of them fell regardless, one after another, man after man, until he abruptly reached open field once more and stopped, confused. The constant thundering of hooves and clanging of steel that deafened him so faded as did the presence of enemy foot soldiers.

"Hah!" The Smalljon laughed, pounding his breast. His sword was drenched in blood. "Through to the other side, Robb! Through to the other side!"

Indeed, as he turned his horse about, he realized that he led his men on a charge straight through the entirety of the flank. It was hastily formed, undermanned and weakened from hours of battle, but it also absorbed the remnants of the center formation when the heavy horse hit it. The right flank had to number at least four thousand still.

And he and his companions had cut a swath of death through it. The foot led by Lord Mallister were pouncing upon the remnants of his charge at the front and he could see The Greatjon's banners joined by Maege Mormont's on the other side of the army, the heavy horse trampling over their enemies without hesitation.

"What a rush!" Jorelle Mormont shouted, waving her red-stained mace in the air.

"You'd find more pleasure in my bed!" Torrhen belted back.

Jorelle – and many of the surrounding men – laughed. "You've never had a Mormont woman, Karstark!"

"You're all mounted the same!"

" _I_ do the mounting in _my_ bed!"

The men laughed again and Robb grinned along with them. There was an ease with which Torrhen Karstark and Jorelle Mormont spoke to one another, mayhaps a marriage could be arranged in the future.

"The army is routed, Lord Robb," Patrek Mallister said at his side, the one opposite Grey Wind. The man was amiable enough, if not somewhat overwhelmed by the direwolf. That was to say nothing of his unease with the fighting women and their… boisterous nature in The North. "The day is won."

"Or night, as it were," Robb quipped. He had with him all eight of his original companions. The other two and twenty of his thirty must have been elsewhere on the battlefield. He turned from the clashing armies with a grunt, thankful for the lull in combat.

"You rode well, Beren."

The boy's eyes widened. "Thank you, Lord Robb! I… I killed a man!"

"And you'll kill many more, I'm sure," he said, frowning when the boy looked away. "Worry not, lad. It becomes easier with each one."

"Yes, Lord Robb," the Tallhart boy said quietly.

The Heir to Winterfell grunted and turned away, not entirely satisfied with the conversation but aware there was no time to speak further.

"Form up! To me! One last charge, lads and ladies! The Greatjon and Lady Mormont need our help in putting down the last of the Lannister army!"

A cheer rose from his companions – Robb noted that Eddard Karstark had found his way to them at some point during the battle – as they charged once more.

* * *

 _Three weeks later, 298 – Robb Stark – Stone Hedge, The Riverlands_

The journey west, toward Riverrun, was long and tiring but the morale of his forces was high after the routing of the Lannister's army. All told, half – or thereabouts, little time was had for a thorough count - of the thirteen thousand were killed. Another three thousand were thought injured, though the way his men told it in their stories, that number was twice as high. Several dozen highborn prisoners were captured, too. The rest scattered across the Riverlands, disorganized and confused.

Now, the might of The North was camped outside the burnt remains of Stone Hedge. Gregor Clegane had gotten to it early in his rampage across the Riverlands, putting the ancient castle to the torch and raping a daughter of Jonos Bracken, head of House Bracken and Lord of the castle.

The elderly man was not present and neither was his family, unfortunately, hidden away in Riverrun as they were.

Robb would free them soon enough.

"To siege Riverrun, one must divide their army up into three parts, to cover all three land approaches separated by The Tumblestone and The Red Fork. Riverrun sits on the latter, see…"

"Lord Jaime Lannister is said to be a shrewd man, though not the most brilliant commander," Robb said from his spot at the round table. Grey Wind lay on his pelts behind him. "He'll have gotten word of our victory by now and will surely retreat before we reach Riverrun."

"A prudent action," Lord Karstark muttered. "He cannot stand against the might of The North."

"Aye!" The Greatjon cheered, many others joined him. "Neither could bloody Tywin Lannister!"

Robb frowned, the Lannister lord still being a sore point for him. Of the hostages he took in the battle, Tywin Lannister was not among them. They took many, the notable ones being Kevan Lannister, brother to Tywin Lannister, as well his son, Lancel Lannister. Ser Harys Swift, Kevan Lannister's good-father and the most insufferable man Robb had ever met. Lord Leo Lefford of Golden Tooth, Lord Serrett of Silverhill and Ser Flement Brax, youngest son of Andros Brax, Head of House Brax and Lord of Hornvale.

But no Tywin Lannister.

"Peace, Lords and Ladies!" Robb yelled over the commotion. "Peace! We will take the land east of Riverrun, between the waters of The Red Fork first. Once that is done, if there be any Lannister Lions left flying in the wind, we can seal off their escape through Golden Tooth."

He paused, glancing about the table at his Lords and Ladies. Glover. Umber. Mormont. Tallhart. Karstark. Manderly. Each one in turn, none raised any complaints.

A rare occasion. One for which he was grateful.

He nodded.

"We march for Lord Lychester's Keep at first light." He paused, turning an unkempt-looking man in more leathers than mail. "Lord Flint, if you would join me at the head of the armies?"

The mountain man nodded, once, stoically, as accustomed to the somewhat-odd tradition as the rest of his banners at this point.

Each day of the march, Robb would speak with one of his Lords or Ladies at the front of the train. Sometimes having conversations that spanned hours at a time, sometimes – in the case of Lord Bolton – speaking barely one hundred words the entire day. Regardless of how willing they were to speak with him, though, Robb still called a noble up every day.

The better to know them, as his father said. Asking a man to die for a Lord he does not know inspired no loyalty, after all.

"Very well," Robb said, collapsing back into his chair – it creaked loudly. "Dis-"

"My Lord! My Lord! My Lord Robb!" A man shouted, bursting into the tent. Quickly, the two Stark guards posted outside followed after him.

Immediately, they made to seize the man and remove him from the tent but Robb stood from his chair.

"Hold!" He barked. The guards released the man shortly thereafter, though they stayed within the tent.

But it was not his guard that caught his interest, rather, it was the intruder's tunic.

It bore the Baratheon Stag – black against gold – and, queerly enough, the Lannister Lion – bright yellow against red. Each sigil shared half the shield.

Robb scowled. "Stand up, man! What nonsense is that sigil?! What insult against Robert Baratheon do you lay at my feet?!"

The man, lanky and with straw-blond hair, dropped his gaze to the ground. His hands twisted around one another. "M-My Lord, I only wear what my- my liegelord demands. I swear I meant no offense! By The Seven, I do swear!"

"You'll find no worshippers of your _new gods_ here, Lannister," The Greatjon snarled.

"Not many," Robb inserted, before anyone else could offer up their – unneeded - input. He offered Wylis Manderly a nod and Jason Mallister as well. Both men returned the gesture. "All gods are welcome here, messenger. But that Lannister Lion… Is this sigil what that fool boy on the Iron Throne has taken as his own? Just enough homage to the Baratheon Stag to pull the wool over our eyes?"

The Heir to Winterfell shook his head. "I see that sigil for what it is – a Lannister coup."

The man swallowed, his head still bowed, but he offered no defense of the heraldry on his tunic.

Robb sighed, rubbing at his eyes. "The boy king wants for me to bend the knee, is that it? Is that why you come?"

"M-My Lord," the man cleared his throat and lifted his head up once more. "I bring word from the Lady Sansa Stark!"

The command tent grew quiet all at once, until only Grey Wind's huffs could be heard from the corner. Outside the tent, the men and women of the northern army yelled suddenly, as if in a cheer.

But Robb heard none of that.

"Bring it here, then," he said quietly, reaching out to accept the letter even as his Lords and Ladies bristled when the messenger moved forward. They needn't have worried. Grey Wind raised his massive head, growled a long, deep growl and lifted himself up to his feet.

The messenger stopped moving faster than Robb had even seen a man freeze before.

"Craven," Theon scoffed from deeper in the tent even as Lord Karstark released a hacking cough of a laugh.

"Come, my good man. My direwolf will not harm you, so long as you do not raise your hand against me."

The man swallowed and, visibly shaking, stepped close enough to hand Robb the letter in his hand. That done, he retreated quickly to the front of the tent, where the two Stark guards still stood, never taking his eyes off of Grey Wind.

"Hah!" The Greatjon chortled. "Some lion. More a cub."

Lady Mormont hummed, eyeing the man through narrowed eyes. She lost a daughter in the attack on the Lannister army; Dacey and Jorelle survived it, but Alysane, who road with Maege herself, fell to a Lannister spear.

Robb put his sworn Lords and Ladies from his mind and instead turned to the letter. It was written in his sister's hand, of that he was certain, and the sight of the delicate, precise letters warmed him. Though the words may be dictated to her, the idea that she was still alive and – hopefully – well, was of great comfort to him.

But, as he read through half the letter, he froze. His blood ran cold. His eyes widened. He started over again, his focus drifting over the greeting. The insincere wish that his army was well. The fact that Joffrey Baratheon – _'The little_ _ **shite**_ _.'_ – now reigned as King.

And the fact that his father, Eddard Stark, had been executed as a traitor.

With the greatsword _Ice,_ no less.

Fury ran cold in his blood. Down his spine. Up his arms. He jaw clenched. His nostrils flared. Behind him, Grey Wind snapped to feet once more, a litany of growls, yips, barks and howls spilling forth from his maw.

His fingers clenched, squashing the letter between the digits.

"Is this true?" He murmured, only dimly aware of how quiet the tent had become once more. The letter still had his entire focus, even crumpled in his hands as it was. He could not remove his gaze from one visible word that still peeked out at him.

 **Executed.**

"Is. This. True?" He spat, lifting his narrowed gaze up to the man across the table. The man that stared back at him with wide eyes.

Grey Wind heaved and let loose a series of barks interlaced with growls.

"My, Mymymymy- M-My Lord! I-I was not privy to-"

"Is my father dead?" Robb hissed.

"What?!" The Greatjon roared, twisting to face the messenger.

"Dead…" Wylis Manderly muttered, his chins wobbling. "It can't be… Not Lord Stark…"

Lady Mormont stiffened and turned her head to observe the messenger. Lord Bolton did the same. Lords Flint, Norrey and Wull of the mountain clans muttered and growled under their breath and Lord Medger Cerwyn clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide.

Under the scrutiny of the entirety of the tent, the man wearing the abomination of a sigil wavered.

"I…" He paused, wincing when Grey Wind released a particularly vile howl.

Outside the tent, the sounds of men roughhousing and drinking petered out.

The man swallowed, his hands twisting themselves together. "Yes, Milord Sta-"

"I'll slaughter every lion I see!" The Greatjon roared, pounding his fists on the great oak table.

Wylis Manderly's expression turned from shocked, widened eyes to a narrowed, angry glare. Maege Mormont shouted a wordless shout and Lord Karstark heaved his mighty battleaxe into the round table before him, burying the weapon past half of its head.

But none matched the fury, the ice cold fury coursing through Robb's veins. That a boy – arrogant and dull and _worthless_ – would decide his father needed to die… That his father lost his life to lies! That his father lost his life when _Ice_ took his head!

Ice! Their own blade! The blade of The North!

Suddenly, Robb understood the Stark words a little better.

Because what was the cold in his veins if not winter itself.

A snarl on his lips, he gripped the round table and heaved with a roar matched by a howl from Grey Wind. The great table's bulk, as wide as The Greatjon was tall, was lifted from the ground and hurled over the heads of his Lords and Ladies. They scattered and dove to the ground even as the object flew through the air and found the canvas of the command tent, immediately collapsing the wall. It then settled with its face on the ground, Lord Karstark's axe still buried in its wood.

But Robb cared for none of that, only for the man in front of him. He stalked forward, his chest heaving, across the length of the half collapsed tent. Grey Wind was at his heels, the wolf as tall as his shoulder, growling a deep, throaty growl.

His Lords and Ladies were scrambling back to their feet where they had thrown themselves to the ground, as was the messenger. The part of himself – small though it was – that still retained his sense cautioned him that he would have to apologize for that later. But that part of him went unheard.

"Count yourself lucky," he whispered, seizing the quivering man by the collar of his blasted tunic. " _I_ still have my honor. _I_ do not kill innocent men."

"Y-Y-Yes milord! You, You are kind indeed, milord!"

It was only then that Robb Stark realized he was outside once more, the evening sun falling low over Stone Hedge. The table he tossed had impacted the side of the command tent and uprooted the opposite side, when the tent's occupants dove for cover, the messenger had gone backward with the Stark guards.

Out into the light.

And a crowd had formed at the base of the small hill he set his command tent upon.

Behind him, he heard Grey Wind's growling die down even as his own fury abated somewhat. A glance over his shoulder told him that he would need a new command tent on the morrow and a new table as well, but his Lords and Ladies looked to be in good shape, if not a little shaken by the display.

Satisfied, he turned back to his guards.

"Alyn," he said quietly as the man – his mouth still agape and his eyes still wide - snapped to attention. His hands straightened the messenger's rumpled collar. "See to it this man has bedding and food for the night. Come morn, send him on his way with a day's bread and cheese."

"Yes, Milord- Lord Stark."

Robb sighed and shut his eyes, the guard's address only driving home his father's death. A small part of him, mayhaps the same irrational part of him that threw the table, wished he had never found The Brotherhood without Banners in their little hidey hole on the way to Stone Hedge. That Thoros of Myr, Beric Dondarron and the Stark men his father had sent after The Mountain – Alyn included – had never joined his army.

But that was unreasonable. Entirely unreasonable. Entirely unfair.

It was something Joffrey Baratheon – the gods take him – would do… place blame on an innocent man for something out of his control.

Robb released a long, slow breath and, with that breath, the last of the cold left his veins. Grey Wind's growls stopped too.

"And Alyn," he called, before the man could get too far with the terrified messenger. "Send Lancel Lannister back with him."

"My Lord?"

"Dead."

The guard hesitated for only a moment. "Yes, my lord. I'll see to it."

"Thank you, Alyn."

And then, it was quiet. Not entirely silent, rather, the army around him produced a low hum of muttered conversations and confused murmurs and his Lords and Ladies swore and cursed behind him as they extracted themselves from the command tent's remains.

He heard, rather than saw, The Greatjon approach from behind him.

"Piss on these southron _shites!_ I say we march to King's Landing and take that whelp's head! A head for a head!"

The man's voice traveled far and wide and already, Robb could see men in his army conferring with one another. Still, the thought of taking Joffrey Baratheon's head was _incredibly_ appealing to him.

He growled deep in his throat, a sound Grey Wind imitated.

"I'll not go back north 'till we see justice done!" Lady Mormont said. "Our liegelord lay dead at the feet of a green boy?! For treason!?" She spat on the ground. . " _Fucking_ Lannisters and their _fucking_ lies!"

The army stirred and their muttering grew along with the size of the crowd. Still, Robb held his silence. His Lord father was dead, his men were going to find out by next morn anyway, letting them hear it here would only quicken the process.

"And then what?" Lord Glover intoned, his voice quieter as he glanced out over the northern army. "To whom will we swear our vows? Lord Renly?"

"Renly is no king," Robb said immediately, turning to face his Lords and Ladies. The position put his back to the army, though, so he paced up the hill, until he could face both his banners and the smallfolk that served him. "Stannis Baratheon inherits before he does."

"There is still another Lannister boy-" Jason Mallister began.

" _Fuck_ the Lannisters!" The Greatjon howled and that statement, at least, the assembled men and women could hear clearly. They let themselves be heard in turn by erupting into a cacophonous cheer.

Over it all, The Greatjon continued: "Do you hear the voices of The North, Mallister?! Lannisters took Lord Stark from us! Lannisters took Lady Sansa and Lady Arya! Lannisters killed our brothers and sisters and now they want us to bend the knee?! _Fuck_ the Lannisters!"

By the end of his tirade, he had the men behind him excited into a near frenzy. Robb could even hear a chant being born: "Fuck the Lannisters! Fuck the Lannisters! Fuck the Lannisters!"

He could only imagine what his prisoners were feeling at that moment.

Come to think of it…

"Hallis," he said to the other Stark guard, the one who still remained. "Hallis Mollen!"

It was difficult to be heard over the chanting of the army, now… this was why they had a command tent.

"Aye, Lord Stark?"

Robb bit back his growl, the title was still too fresh. "See to it that our captives don't come to harm. All but Lancel Lannister. Take what men and women you need to see it done."

"Aye."

With that, he was gone, and Robb was left with his Lords and Ladies, nearly two dozen in number. His thirty were lingering in the crowd gathered around the bottom of the hill. He could see Smalljon belting out the 'Fuck the Lannisters' chant at the top of his lungs while Dacey Mormont and Patrek Mallister leaned upon one another nearby, unsteady on their feet as they were.

"I'll not swear to Stannis Baratheon," Wylis Manderly yelled. The fat man could not match The Greatjon but still, he made himself heard to the other highborn on the hill. "Nor Renly, nor that… that _Lannister_ neither!"

"No king!" Lord Flint yelled, slapping the head of his battleaxe with his palm. "Stark! Stark is the only one my axe will follow!"

"Aye! Aye!" Lady Mormont yelled.

"My Lords and Ladies," Galbart Glover called, straining to be heard over the roar of the army. "We've no king! We _must_ decide to follow-!"

"Fuck these southron _cunts_!" The Greatjon roared.

Though all the other highborn could barely hear themselves over the chanting in the army, The Greatjon still had a voice that could silence them all.

"Fuck these southron cunts!" The Greatjon repeated as the chanting of the army died down. "Stannis and Renly are nothing to me! The Lannisters are nothing to me! Why should we kneel to them and theirs'!? I care not one single whit for their flowery seats and dainty swords!"

The man, his face reddened in fury, paused to take a breath even as the gathered men and women let loose another wordless cheer.

"Even their gods are wrong!" The man yelled, whirling to face the gathered crowd. They quietened as he continued: "We knelt to dragons and the dragons are _dead!_ Why should we submit to anyone?! Why should we kneel to a southerner?!"

The collected men and women – easily numbering close to one thousand, now – remained silent, enraptured as they were. A murmur passed through them, but nothing more than that. No chants. No cheers.

The air was charged with energy, a feeling of anticipation so strong that even Robb found himself holding in his breath.

Then, The Greatjon pulled the giant greatsword from his back and pointed it toward him.

The hair on the back of Robb's neck stood on end.

"There stands the only king I mean to bend my knee to, m'lords! The King in the North!"

With that, the giant of a man dropped to a knee, his greatsword lying flat on the ground. A beat of silence passed over the assembled Lords and Ladies and the men and women of his army as well.

Then: "Aye!" Wylis Manderly shouted, his voice carrying out over the hill and the plains below it. "The King in the North!"

And he too, knelt.

"King in the North! Bear Island will kneel to only him!" Lady Mormont declared, turning toward him to take a knee as well.

Robb let out a shocked breath of air, his head swiveling about as his Lords and Ladies, one by one, knelt before him.

"The King in the North!" They shouted.

"The King in the North!" They howled.

And, with each highborn knee that touched the dirt, the army grew ever more excited.

Smalljon started the chant.

"King in the North! King in the North! King in the North!"

It spread like fire across a dry field. Thousands of voices yelling in unison, singing his praise and announcing a title he never expected might be his. Soon, Robb imagined the chant could be heard for leagues in every direction.

And so he became Robb Stark, King of the North.

* * *

 _Robb Stark's path through the Riverlands leaves him at Stone Hedge, not Riverrun, when news of his father's death reaches him. With only Lord Mallister and some minor Frey nobles present from among the Riverland families, he does not claim the Trident when he becomes king._

 _Unbeknownst to the new King in the North, Arya Stark never encounters The Mountain's men – they were never sent to raze the Riverlands after Tywin Lannister defeated Roose Bolton's force of northmen – and so she never journeys to Harrenhal. Neither does she encounter the Brotherhood without Banners, absorbed into the northern army as they were. Instead, she continues her journey north with Yoren of the Night's Watch._

 _Since Tyrion rode west, to Riverrun, with The Mountain's riders, he is never at King's Landing to send Mrycella off to Dorne and so the ensuing riot does not occur. Sansa Stark is never rescued by the Hound and shipped off to the Vale. Instead, she remains in King's Landing, a prisoner of the Lannisters._

* * *

 **A/N:** What's up, guys? You get this one a bit early this week – I'll be over in Indianapolis for the Big Ten Championship this weekend so posting on Saturday isn't possible.

Parts of the Greatjon's speech were taken from the books, worded so skillfully as they are. I hope you enjoyed the alternative crowning of Robb, all the same.

The **next chapter** will take a look at what's going on in King's Landing with a potential bit on what Arya is doing in all this mess. Sansa as well, if you guys want to see her piece.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed thus far, doubly so if you've followed me from my previous stories. I appreciate all of you and your words and the time you take to put your proverbial pen to the paper. Reading your thoughts on the story and its direction is at once gratifying and engaging.

And with that… a couple responses to said reviews:

 **The Jingo:** Margaery certainly presents Robb with an appealing marriage. Dorne, too, has a few potential wives for him to take. Both situations would get him men and (probably) some sort of increased trade but they also come with severe downsides, the most obvious being the distance between his realm and Dorne/The Reach. In the end, it all comes down to whether or not Robb needs men and resources for his war. If he can do without, then the good will of his vassals will take priority. Thanks for your review!

 **X59:** Not having Bran around to stop the dead will indeed become a problem. That's still a ways off, of course, but Robb and The North will have to deal one way or another. I have an outline for how they'll do it, but I imagine that'll evolve as I post this story and read its feedback. Thanks for your review!

 **Jean D'Arc:** Robb's insecurity in the books was one of the reasons I was drawn to him in the first place. He had such potential for growth, only to be snuffed out so early on. His mistakes led him to his death and considering how unforgiving the books are, I sort of saw that coming when he married Jeyne… but I still wish he'd have found a way. This story is my best attempt to write a Robb that _did_ live to grow up. That does understand the weight of responsibility on his shoulders. I hope I do the idea justice. Thanks for your thoughts!

 **Anand891996:** Jon is up at the wall, yeah. Theon is still with Robb. The sentence in question where I specified that was tossing around three characters for subjects and the pronouns got a bit confusing. Not to worry though, you have the right idea!

Thank you to everyone I did not mention in my notes, as well. Again, your reviews are half the reason I do this. The other half… well, I want to explore this story idea. I hope you guys will join me on that journey!

Till next time,

Phailen


	4. Chapter 4

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _Three weeks later, 298 – Robb Stark – Riverrun, The Riverlands_

"To whomever comes forth to take the black, Robb Stark, King of the North, shall move his family and all his worldly possessions to the holdfast Moat Cailin, where they shall settle under the Lord Greystark, master of the keep. The man's family shall receive wages equal to that of the man's pay before taking the black, until the man's first child is fully grown."

"Just so," Robb nodded, rubbing at his eyes. He was in the solar Hoster Tully – rather, Edmure Tully, for the man's father was indisposed – granted him. "Bring them to me once you've written the additional ones. I'll affix my seal."

"Of course, Your Grace," the maester of Riverrun, a man named Vyman, intoned. He left shortly thereafter.

That done, Robb sighed and leaned back in his chair. Idly, he reached up to the top of his head and removed his crown, heavy as it was. Made of strong metals, it suited a King far more than any a southron had worn, of that he was certain. A bronze circlet was the band and it sported runes of the First Men, a tribute to his heritage. Nine black iron spikes adored the circle, each shaped like a long sword.

It was a strong crown, not flashy or sparkly or pretty. One meant for a King in the North. One as hardy as his people.

He would do them proud.

But the Ironborn were certainly making that duty a difficult one.

They were attacking The North now, these followers the drowned god; he received letters only yesterday detailing the assault. Torrhen's Square and Deepwood Motte had fallen and their castellans were desperate for assistance.

Or were. He imagined those very same castellans were more desperate for their heads, now.

The Ironborn's idea of civilized society amounted to raping womenfolk and taking menfolk as slaves, after all.

Unbidden, a growl escaped his throat, a sound echoed by Grey Wind, the direwolf otherwise placidly relaxing on a pile of furs in the corner of the room.

He had sent word to House Dustin of Barrowtown, instructing them to aid in the recovery of Torrhen's Square. Enough lenience he gave them when they sent only a paltry amount of swords for his campaign south in the name of his father. The Lady Barbrey Dustin bore Eddard Stark a grudge at not returning the bones of her husband after the fight at the Tower of Joy.

' _Enough is enough.'_

His father was dead. He had allowed her the grudge when he marched, but no longer would he tolerate it. Mayhaps he could name an heir to Barrowtown more favorable than her, if she delayed in naming one herself any longer.

Matters for another day, when the war was over. When the Ironborn were pushed back.

And if the raiders' attack did not put Theon Greyjoy in a tough spot, then Robb did not know what could. The man remained a ward of House Stark, a hostage in all but name, and yet the self-styled Balon Greyjoy, King of the Iron Islands and _the North_ saw fit to launch an attack all the same.

Robb supposed he could thank the man for Theon's loyalty, at least. When he had learned of his father's attack, the details of his situation immediately became clear to him. That his father cared so little for him to risk an attack while he was surrounded by Stark swords only served to make him fervently loyal to Robb and incredibly bitter toward his own blood.

All the better, The King in the North had once considered sending Theon back to the Iron Islands when he reached Riverrun, to see if Balon Greyjoy might be interested in an alliance. The endgame would be Casterly Rock and Ironborn ships would have gone a long way to making that siege easier. And he might've actually sent Theon off too, had he gone with his original thought to make haste straight to Riverrun to break the siege. That would have put him in a position to assault the Westerlands much sooner than his actual route did.

Luckily, his studies with Luwin taught him all he needed to know of the Lannisters and their habits. Of Tywin's disdain for Tyrion. Of his bitter grudge against the last Targaryen King for taking Jaime on as a Kingsguard. Of his daughter's penchant for acting irrationally where her children were concerned – the bones of Lady reinforced that point quite nicely, a grudge he bore in Sansa's name.

But most importantly, it taught him just how much Tywin thought of Jaime, of his house, of his pride. The son was still the heir in the Lord of Lannister's mind, because a dwarf could not rule the house of the lions.

And so, Robb threatened that son by feinting a charge toward the siege on Riverrun, hoping that Tywin Lannister would act irrationally and make himself and his army vulnerable.

A wry grin touched his lips. He had not been so lucky – that Tywin sent his horse ahead with The Mountain that Rides had not been an ill-conceived decision in the slightest, considering the information the Head of House Lannister had at the time. It was a rational choice from a man known for being just that.

No, his only failing that day – or night, as it were – had been a lack of information. And no amount of wit or intellect or pride could help that.

The Culling at Harroway was the result.

Robb grunted, rising from his seat and pacing toward the window in the solar. In the castle within which his mother spent her childhood.

' _Did she look upon these fields once, from this very window?'_

If she had, she likely would have seen green and tan colors, filled with smallfolk going about their harvests.

Not the burnt ruin that remained.

The Lannisters had decimated the Riverlands. The vast majority of it was razed to the ground now, swathes of its smallfolk murdered and left to rot under the sun. It would take months to recover and rebuild from the carnage, if not longer.

And winter was coming…

"Your Grace," Alyn's voice said from the doorway. "Lord Tyrion wishes to speak with you."

"Again?" Robb muttered, scowling. The dwarf had been the only worthwhile prisoner taken from the breaking of the siege around Riverrun.

Though 'breaking' the siege was a generous term indeed.

When Robb's armies reached his grandfather's holdfast, he found only a skeleton force of the Lannister army remaining. The vast majority of it consisted of sellswords and green boys that were more at home in a field of wheat than they were on a battlefield.

And, of course, Tyrion Lannister and his Mountain Clans of the Vale.

Many of whom Robb's own Mountain Clans bore serious grudges against for one reason or another.

The North remembers.

The battle had been both bloody and short-lived, outnumbered as the Vale clans, the sellswords and the Lannisters were. Those who did not run fell quickly, until only Tyrion and that sellsword he favored, Bronn, remained.

Apparently, the dwarf had received a letter from his father, Lord Tywin Lannister, instructing him to take command of the siege at Riverrun while Jaime took what few thousands remained of the foot south through the passage under Golden Tooth and The Mountain took the heavy horse to resume his reign of terror on the Riverlands.

He knew this, in part, because a bitter Tyrion Lannister was willing to share it and because his army had encountered The Mountain and his men on their march to Riverrun. Many times, in fact. That beast harried them all the way to the limits of Riverrun's arrows. Even tried to take his army in the rear while they ran off the sellswords dim-witted enough to stick around after Jaime Lannister left Riverrun with the Lannister men.

The Clegane Lord lost perhaps two thousand horse of his six, largely only because he overstayed his welcome during the Battle at the Camps, but Robb's armies took twice that many casualties.

It was bittersweet victory that broke the siege around Riverrun.

"Send him in," The King in the North said, returning to his desk to place his crown atop his head once more.

Alyn saluted then promptly left the room.

Only seconds passed before, with a strut a prisoner had no right to, Tyrion Lannister entered his solar.

"Robb Stark!" The dwarf said, a wide smile on his twisted face.

"Lannister," The King in the North said, short and simple. "I trust your accommodations are to your liking."

"Well there are no bars on my window and I've a whore to warm my bed. If only something could be done about the armed escort…"

Robb's eyes narrowed. "You are a prisoner, Lannister. You _are_ aware of this, yes?"

"Quite!" The man laughed. "But one must always endeavor to improve his spot in life, _that_ is what my father has taught me, if nothing else."

"And how might I improve your station?"

"Ahh," the dwarf murmured, blinking. "Straight to the point then. I appreciate a man with-"

"Gold?" Robb barked. "Women? Men? Out with it, man!"

"First time I've been called a man in a long while," Tyrion muttered, his eyebrows arched. "Ah! But you have much on your plate and I need not add to it. What I want is simple – Casterly Rock."

The King in the North snorted. "Then we seek the same prize – I do not like to share."

"Nay, Lord Robb," Tyrion said, raising his hands up before him. "If I may be so bold, you do not want Casterly Rock, persay… You want its wealth. You want to give my father a knock upside his big head. You want what The Rock represents, not what it is!"

Robb held his silence for a moment, eyes narrowed. The dwarf was not wrong. Not entirely. He did not care for the keep itself – he had enough of those up north and one as far south as Casterly Rock would be too hard to defend – but, rather, the wealth it held.

The wealth he needed to rebuild Moat Cailin. The wealth he needed to make good on his bluff.

The dagger, nestled against his chest under his tunic, never felt heavier.

He walked over to his desk, a large oaken thing that shone with all the prettiness of the south, and turned upright two goblets. He poured wine from the skin he had his squire fetch and then offered one to Tyrion.

"Sit," he said simply, as the dwarf accepted the cup.

"Gladly! And- oh! Is this my father's wine? I recognize the vintage, he boasted to King Aerys once over it, or so I hear from Aunt Gemma."

Robb smiled a small smile. It seemed the dwarf gabbed as much as he spoke worthwhile words.

"Indeed," he said. "And my title is King Robb, Lannister. You'd best remember it while you sit in the midst of my army."

"Ahh! But not in your keep, no? The Tullys were rather put off when you refused to provide them protection in your name, even more so when you offered to move any willing House north."

Robb frowned. The Riverlands were in ruins and hardly defensible at full strength, as The Mountain and Jaime Lannister had proven so aptly. Absorbing them into his fledgling kingdom would only spell doom for it, especially while he fought a war against the Ironborn and the Lannisters simultaneously.

Before the Battle at Harroway he had eighteen thousand foot and eight thousand horse in his army. Now, he had only thirteen thousand foot and six thousand horse. Enough for one, even _two_ fronts, but attempting to defend the Riverlands from the east was beyond his military might.

No. The Tullys would have to provide for themselves.

And his offer to move any House north was made in the moment, upon his first meeting with Jonos Bracken, the Lord of Stone Hedge. His castle was burnt, his daughter raped, his smallfolk slaughtered and his fields put to the torch. Robb, foolishly, had thought a new beginning would be a welcome gesture.

But the man was admirably loyal and took more offense to the move than did even his uncle, Edmure Tully, acting Head of House Tully.

"Mistakes were made, I admit," he said slowly.

"Aye," Tyrion said, taking a pull from his goblet. "But the Tullys are in no position to complain! You broke the siege on Riverrun… And there is, of course, the small detail of your army outside their gates."

The dwarf smiled a twisted smile.

"No. No position to complain at all."

"Casterly Rock," Robb said, perhaps a bit too quickly. The frown on his face would not fully disappear either, so he hid it behind his goblet.

"Casterly Rock," Tyrion agreed. "It is my birthright, even if my father refuses to acknowledge that."

"Jaime is the elder."

"And of the Kingsguard. Men who hold no titles but one."

"You have a claim," Robb allowed, the wine allowing his mind to settle. Talk of his mother's family had gotten him agitated. "But I've no reason to give you The Rock, not when I can simply take it."

"Without Ironborn ships, Lord Robb? You've no way of stopping breads and cheeses and wines from reaching my family by sea. And The Mountain's horse, too! They'll be at your back all the while!"

"King Robb," he said, frowning. Gregor Clegane's savages were a constant source of annoyance for him, hindering his ability to move within the Riverlands simply by their presence alone. They moved quickly too, faster than his foot could corner them.

And he was not willing to risk his six thousand horse against the six thousand that The Mountain commanded.

He had faith in the men and women of The North, but taking that fight while he had thirteen thousand foot sitting on their arses was a fool's plan.

No, let them burn the Riverlands in the meantime. He would not move against them until an opportunity presented itself.

"Am I to assume you can stop those breads and cheeses and wines, Lord Tyrion?"

The dwarf laughed. "I am but a dwarf, I cannot stop ships from supplying The Rock… but I can get the gates open for you, Sly Wolf."

Robb's lips twitched upwards.

"A foolish name, I thought so too, but what the smallfolk name you, you cannot shake," the dwarf said, taking another drink from his goblet. "Mayhaps we are wrong, Lord Robb. Mayhaps the smallfolk hold all the power, and only _allow_ us to rule?"

"King Robb," the boy of sixteen namedays corrected once more, now certain Tyrion was thumbing his nose at him. Still, his ego was not so large that he would not hear the dwarf out – any potential way to get into The Rock was one Robb would explore fully. "And you might be right, Lannister. But we are not here to speak of smallfolk."

"Ah! Of course… To the point! To the point! I can open the gates of Casterly Rock to your army, if only you put me on that golden seat when you leave."

"And your people would simply allow it? The one who betrayed them?"

The dwarf's smile faltered and he raised his goblet to his lips once more. When he lowered it, the smile was back in place. "Let me worry about my smallfolk, Lord Robb. You'll find that they have short memories, nothing like The North! Or so I hear…"

The King in the North growled low in throat but did not bother to correct the dwarf this time. Still, his mind spun with the possibilities of just what the dwarf was offering. A way into Casterly Rock… he could not pass on it.

But the plan as it was – with Tyrion opening the gates himself before his army, would paint the dwarf a traitor. Despite the man's skill at manipulating conversation, Robb doubted he would be able to keep his coveted, golden seat for too long. Normally, that would not matter one whit to The King in the North – he needed no friends in the Lannisters – but what he _could_ use was a source of income.

And the gold mines of the Westerlands would serve wonderfully to that end.

To keep Tyrion blameless, he could not be the one to open the gates. It would have to be men bought and paid for with King's gold, someone like the dwarf's sellsword. The man – Bronn – would do well as a scapegoat too.

' _But then, why stop at one man, when you can have dozens?'_

"I've a better plan, Lannister," Robb said, crouching down on his laurels to speak more quietly with the dwarf. He did not trust Riverrun's walls. Not after he overheard maid-servants whispering about his business one day while he prayed in the Godswood, wishing Bran peace in death and his sisters safety in life. "Take your sellsword and three dozen of my fair-haired northerners, mayhaps from White Harbor or The Flints, and weave a tale of how you escaped my northern horde. Tell them you outwitted us, barbaric savages that we are, and how you crossed the countryside to Casterly Rock before we could catch you… Have them pose as savages even, from your Mountain Clans of the Vale. That ought to fool all who question you."

Robb paused, drinking deeply from his goblet. Tyrion offered him no reply, instead the Lannister man kept his eyes narrowed and focused on the ground in front of him.

"My army follows some weeks later. And, when we reach Casterly Rock, the gates swing open for us. I allow you to keep your golden seat. And instead of emptying your castle's vaults entirely, I only take half of your foodstuffs and gold."

"A shrewd plan and a generous offer to be certain, I can see why the smallfolk name you Sly Wolf," Tyrion intoned, carefully placing his goblet down on the table beside his chair. "But, you see, I've no army to get more food to feed my own smallfolk through the winter and, as you Starks are so fond of reminding us, winter is coming…"

"Yet, you still have gold with which to _buy_ that food."

"A valid point, my good friend! But you see, who is to guard that food if my severely diminished swords are keeping my mines safe?"

"You are unmarried, are you not? Broker a deal. Ask for food as dowry, for you have gold in excess."

"Easier said than done, Lord Robb."

"I could just as easily take _all_ the gold and the food."

"And I could just as easily not open those pesky, troublesome gates."

Robb scowled. "One third the gold and food, as well as half the ore from your largest mine."

"Ah!" Tyrion exclaimed, jumping to his feet in the chair. The dwarf extended his hand as The King in the North rose to his full height – they were eye to eye. "Now _that_ is an offer I cannot refuse!"

Robb eyed the hand before him, but did not reciprocate. "Numbers."

The dwarf blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"A count of the gold in your vaults whence you reach Casterly Rock," Robb said, lowering his voice once more. "My men will estimate the gold you have-"

"Why, King Robb, surely you do not think me so dishonorable-"

"I do, Lannister. I need only look to your nephew as proof."

The dwarf sighed, but extended his hand once more. "Very well, King Robb. You are shrewd for your age, of that there is no doubt."

This time, The King in the North clasped the man's hand. "I made a mistake. A rash mistake. It cost my brother his life. I am shrewd by necessity, lest I make another mistake and another man loses his life for it."

"Ah, young Bran Stark," the dwarf muttered, closing his eyes. "A sad-"

"Do not speak of my family as though you know them, Lannister."

Tyrion sighed. "And here I thought we were friends…"

"Far from it," Robb said, returning to his desk. "Now, there is but one problem with your ploy – your father."

The dwarf's eyes widened. "Ah! But King Robb, you've already solved that problem!"

The King in the North paused, his hand half way to his goblet. "Explain."

"Well," the Lannister started, planting his arse back in his seat. "You see, I saw a curious sight when I was being led about Riverrun like a court jester… though I certainly looked the part, in all-"

"The point, Lannister."

"Oh, fine," the dwarf snapped. "You've already taken my father as your prisoner, King Robb. He awaits your judgement in chains with my own dear uncle, Kevan Lannister! And wearing Swyft colors, no less!"

The dwarf laughed. "And when I saw that, I got to wondering… how could my father send word to hold the siege at Riverrun in chains? Why, it's almost as though someone _else_ with the Lannister seal wishes to see me dead!"

And, as quickly as it started, the laughter faded. "And I mean to see _her_ dead before I go, King Robb. To that end, I _need_ Casterly Rock."

* * *

 _One week later, 298 – Robb Stark – Riverrun, The Riverlands_

Tyrion Lannister was on his way with the men of the North, all of them dressed in the furs and leathers of the Mountain Clans of the Vale.

That the dwarf did not choose any to wear Lannister colors struck Robb as odd, for they would stick out overly much among all the polished reds and golds of the Lion's seat. Very quickly, he realized that they were _meant_ to stick out. They were _meant_ to be easily identified.

The better for Tyrion Lannister to have them killed once he made it to Casterly Rock.

So Robb dressed only Frey men in Mountain Clan garb, then had one hundred of his own Stark men dressed in the reds and golds of the Lannisters they killed. Stragglers from Jaime's march, they were to be. Scouts left behind to watch for northern horse to take them in the rear.

Hopefully, Tyrion would not think it overly strange when they attached themselves to his party.

He told no one of his ploy but the one hundred men he recruited. His Lords and Ladies still thought their only way into Casterly Rock was through Tyrion Lannister.

"King Robb, your grace," a voice said from the door. He placed it as Wylis Manderly, son of Lord Wyman Manderly of White Harbor.

Indeed, when he turned to the entrance of the solar, the very same man stood, holding in his hands a letter.

He adjusted the crown atop his head, nodding to one of the chairs facing his desk.

"I bring word from my Lord Father, your grace," the large man said, heaving his bulk into a seat. A great sigh escaped the man. "Many pardons. Moving has not gotten easier of late."

"We will be home soon, Lord Wylis, worry not. All that remains is to take Casterly Rock and retrieve my sisters."

"Just so, your grace, just so," the man agreed, nodding. "And, if you do not find it odd, I would prefer it if you used my given name, no titles. I am to be your good-father, after all."

"Indeed, Wylis," Robb allowed, offering the man a smile. "I hope the siege of Moat Cailin will not delay your daughter over much. The Ironborn's ill-conceived attack comes at a bad time."

"Ah!" The man grunted, carefully unrolling the parchment in his hands. He offered it to Robb.

The King in the North unfurled it to find a pale-skinned woman's visage staring up at him, a small smile curling the corner of her lips. Her hair, darkly colored, wound down over her shoulder in a thick braid and on her head, she wore a veil made of dozens of tiny gems.

She looked confident. Capable.

They were not the first words that Robb expected himself to summon up. He expected instead beautiful or comely, and though she _was_ clearly both, he saw in her a queen.

A Queen of the North.

The thought made him smile.

"Your daughter, Wynafryd?" He murmured as he carefully placed the parchment down on the desk and returned his attention to the girl's father.

"Indeed, your grace," the man responded, a pleased smile on his own face. "It was done quickly when it was learned that the Stark, Manderly and Reed men-at-arms would not take back Moat Cailin in short order. She is to your liking?"

"She is, Wylis. Your daughter is a great beauty and, though this portrait may have been hastily done, it leaves me no doubt to her comeliness. Moreover, though, I am pleased with what I see because I see a queen in her gaze… She is strong-willed, is she not?"

"Quite, your grace!" The man laughed. "I had worried that you would not find her to your liking because of it!"

Robb smiled a small smile. "A man in my position needs a strong woman at his side, Wylis. She will make a good queen."

The elder man exhaled slowly, glancing at the ground in front of him. "And here I came to soothe _your_ doubts, your grace. Instead, you have calmed _mine!_ "

"Nothing less is expected from a king, Wylis."

"If I may… Nothing less is expected from _wise_ kings, your grace. Truly, the north will benefit greatly from your leadership."

Robb hummed. "I-"

A knock came at the door.

He frowned and cleared his throat, the better to raise his voice.

"Yes?" He called.

"Your grace," the door cracked open and Alyn's head appeared from behind it. "I… There is someone here claiming to be your sister."

Robb – and Wylis too – froze. Both of his sisters were in King's Landing still, to the best of his knowledge. He had received no less than five more letters urging him to drop his rebellion on top of the first, each done in Sansa's delicate, precise hand. Each affixed with his father's seal, angry though it made him to look upon the wax and think of the Lannisters that used it, it at least reassured him that Sansa was safe.

Arya… he had assumed his wild sister had simply refused to take part in the Lannisters' games. He thought her bullish attitude had browbeat them into ignoring her for the more pliable elder sister.

But…

"Where?" He said quickly, Grey Wind lifting his head off his pile of furs behind him. "Where is she?"

"The great hall, your grace."

Robb swallowed, the eagerness of a boy encompassing his mind held back only by the lessons learnt by a man.

"Wylis," he said, carefully – perhaps too hurriedly – rolling up the portrait of Wynafryd and placing it within his tunic. It would not stay pristine for long, not on the campaign trail with him. "I must…"

"Of course, your grace," the man said, rising to his feet and offering him a nod. "I take no offense. I've said what I wished to say. I'll see myself back to my rooms."

The man left and Robb did the same, shortly thereafter. Alyn fell into step behind him while the other guard posted outside his door remained behind.

He heard her before he saw her.

' _Arya! That's Arya's voice!'_

"What do you mean I can't go see him?! It's just Robb!"

"Princess Arya, please-"

"Why do you keep calling me a princess?! I'll knock your teeth out if you don't stop! I'm not some princess and I won't wear dresses neither!"

"Of course, my lady, we've sent word to your brother-"

"Good! I-"

It was then that Robb made it through the great doors and entered Riverrun's great hall. It was an odd thing, filled with square tables beneath the dias, upon which Edmure Tully sat behind his long table. In the center of the room, Maester Vyman was speaking with-

"Arya," Robb whispered, rushing forward. Her hair was shorter and she was even thinner than before and she wore boy's pants with a sword on her hip but there was no mistaking it.

This was his sister.

He reached her before she had a chance to respond to the noise behind her and grabbed her about her middle in a bear hug.

She flailed. "Let go of me or I'll poke-! Robb? …Robb!"

Quickly, he felt her arms wrap around his neck in a vice and he sunk to his knees in the middle of the hall. It was as though a great pressure was lifted from his shoulders, part of it at least, upon seeing the girl.

' _She has ten namedays to her now,'_ he realized numbly, squeezing her tighter.

The girl sniffed and murmured something into his shoulder. He could not understand it but that did not matter. She was back – Arya was back, safe and whole and-

"Who brought her?" He asked Vyman quietly, eyeing the man. The maester was averting his gaze, ever respectful, but upon being addressed, he met Robb's eyes.

"A man named Yoren, your grace, of the Night's Watch."

"A black brother," Robb murmured, trying and partially succeeding at keeping his voice even. "I've four and seventy recruits for him from my army, yes?"

"Six and seventy, now, your grace. Two more accepted your offer just as the sun rose."

"He will have my favor, he and the Night's-"

Arya pulled her head away from his shoulder, her eyes red and nose runny. The girl moved so quickly, though, that he could not get his crown out of the way quickly enough.

"Ow!" His sister shouted, rubbing at her head as one eye closed in a wince. "What are- Is that a _crown?!_ You really are a King?!"

He nodded, mute.

"Robb!" Ayra howled, baring her teeth. "I don't want to be a princess!"

And he laughed, drawing the girl back into an embrace. She fought him, now, infuriated as she was over receiving the title, but he did not let her go.

* * *

 _Two months later, 298 – Robb Stark – Golden Tooth, The Westerlands_

The first keep he took in The War of the Five Kings was something of a disappointment, for Lord Leo Lefford, Head of House Lefford and Lord of Golden Tooth was his prisoner. He needed only to remind the Westerland men of that and the gates opened for he and his army without much fanfare, only a promise of releasing the captive Lord to his family was required.

Robb did so, but not without housing two thousand of his foot in the keep to secure his exit route from The Westerlands.

And the gold in the castle, of course – he would pick it and the foodstuffs up on his way back north, after the Ironborn invasion had been repulsed.

' _The Ironborn,'_ the boy-turned-man-turned-King thought wryly. _'Not two months ago I was losing sleep over them… now they have retreated back to their Iron Islands for reasons unknown.'_

It was a welcome surprise, the abandonment of the Ironborn troops by their highborn commanders. Last word had Torrhen's Square flying Tallhart and Stark colors once more, though Moat Cailin was still under siege by what Stark and Manderly forces remained north of The Neck, aided by the Reeds. Evidently even the Dustins of Barrowtown decided to send a paltry amount of swords in support.

That House Manderly was eager to win back Moat Cailin so that his betrothed, Wynafryd Manderly, could travel south only made the situation more promising. Robb had put Marlon Manderly – commander of the garrison in White Harbor - in charge of the siege, at Lord Wyman Manderly's suggestion.

"Robb," Arya called, swinging her legs back and forth as she sat in a window atop Golden Tooth. They were in what served as his solar for the immediate future, though the room held far too much gold and crimson for his liking. "When will we march?"

"Soon, sister," he responded immediately.

"How soon? On the morrow?"

He bit back a sigh, but began to sift through the parchment covering his desk all the same. Two letters from mother, a report on his army's supply train, an offer of betrothal for Beren Tallhart and Arya Stark, various reports from his scouts, another- Ah!

He lifted the paper up for his inspection. One hundred names were spelled out in his own hand, meticulously written so as to not appear in his normal, nearly illegible scrawl.

Nine and eighty of those names were crossed out.

But one and ten remained unaccounted for. It was for those Stark men dressed as Lannisters, meant to travel with Tyrion, that he waited. He wanted to be absolutely certain that his secondary plan to take Casterly Rock would succeed.

He turned back to Arya. "Soon."

The girl huffed, turning away from the mountain ranges that surrounded Golden Tooth, and fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. Her sword – an extremely thin blade she received from Jon, he learned – clattered noisily against the stone walls.

"You made a deal with the Imp, didn't you?" She said, crossing her arms over her tunic. With her still-short hair and pants, she looked more a boy than a girl. "We-"

"What have I told you about speaking of that? Especially here?"

She weathered his own narrow-eyed glare admirably. "To not. But you also told me we would march two days ago!"

"Our situation has changed," he responded, glancing at one of the papers on his desk. The one he was using to track his returning Stark men dressed as Lannisters. None of them returned in red and gold, of course, but in common clothing.

He removed his focus from the paper when Arya scoffed.

"Are you not pleased that I let you come along with the army, sister?"

The girl looked away. "I would've come even if you said no."

"That is precisely why I let you come along," Robb muttered under his breath.

"What are you whispering about?"

"Nothing, Arya – have you yet looked upon the picture of my betrothed?"

The girl frowned but said nothing for a moment, her eyes falling to the floor. One of her boots scuffed against the stone before she looked back at him, her eyes darting restlessly about the room.

"Do you _have_ to take a wife so early so you can have an heir?" The girl said, her voice quieter now. Her fingers were clenched around Needle.

"Aye," he said, turning his attention from the portrait of Wynafryd Manderly and over to his sister. "My throne is built upon weak foundations, Arya, and without a son to serve as heir, the duty would fall to Rickon."

"Why can't he be your heir?"

Robb frowned. "My bannermen would not be so eager to follow him. He is a child, barely old enough to even _lift_ a practice sword. He has not been tested in battle and, though some of my banners would cleave to him, opportunists would doubtlessly betray him. I'll not put a boy of only four namedays through that."

"Hmph," the girl scoffed, crossing her arms again. "Well… We don't need them anyway, those other families, so you don't need to take a wife and you don't need a son."

Robb glanced again at the portrait of Wynafryd. The edges of the parchment were frayed and it was creased along the folds he used to store it within his armor. The ink was beginning to fade too. But still, the woman depicted on it looked up at him, unyieldingly strong and proud.

The boy in him hoped she would find him agreeable, that they would find the love he saw his own mother and father exhibit toward one another.

The King in him hoped that she could weather the pressure of being Queen of the North. That she was quick of the mind and possessed a neck strong enough to hold her crown.

But both of them agreed she was necessary for his kingdom to survive.

"Arya," Robb began, turning back to his sister. "Look at me, please… Thank you. Though I may be King in the North, though I may one day take a wife, I will still find time for you, sister."

The girl's eyes widened. "What?!" She barked. "I'm not worried about that. I know you'll- I mean- It's not that!"

Robb choose not to offer a reply. A Lord's answer if there ever was one.

And surprisingly effective too.

"It's not!" Arya insisted. "I don't care if you have time for me! …I don't! I've survived all on my own in a war so I don't need you!"

Those words stung. They cut deep. Not because she claimed she did not need him, but because she _could_ claim such a thing in the first place.

It may not be his own fault that Arya Stark was left alone in the middle of a war, but the gods be damned if it did not remind him of how he let Bran down. After so many months, the thought that another member of his family might suffer whilst he could have prevented it struck at his very core.

"I'm sorry, Arya," he said quietly, his eyes idly tracing the contours on Wynfryd's face. Would his children face the same adversity, one day?

He truly hoped not. He truly hoped that this peace he was trying to build for The North lasted.

"You should have never gone through-"

"Shut up!" The girl barked. "Don't say that like it's your fault or… or like you were supposed to protect me! 'Cause I don't need it! Not then and not now neither!"

Her chest was heaving and her mouth was contorted into a snarl he never knew her to make. One thin-fingered hand gripped her sword in its scabbard whilst the other was clenched into a white-knuckled fist.

The sight was such as startling change from the good-humoured, if not occasionally surly, girl he knew from Winterfell that words failed him. It was all he could do to stay in his seat, even.

' _She's in such pain…'_

Urgently, he jumped up from the very same seat he nearly fell out of and lowered himself to a knee in front of the girl. He wrapped his arms around her back just as she tried to jump away.

"Hey! What- Stop it!" She protested, her hands pushing against his tunic. "Robb! Let go- Let me go! I don't need a bloody hug! I don't! I don't-"

Her breath caught in her throat.

"I'll make certain you'll never fear for your life again," he muttered as the girl centered herself.

"You can't promise that," she said immediately. "You can't say that!"

Robb held his tongue, only holding her in the embrace.

"You can't!" She insisted. "You- Stupid! You- I can take care of myself Robb! I don't need you! I don't need you watching over me or your permission to do things or… or anything! I killed a stable boy in King's-"

Her tirade ended prematurely again, though this time a hiccup was to blame. It was immediately followed by a sniffle.

Her hands began pushing at his tunic again.

"Lemme go," she said again, though not as loud as before. "I'm not a child! And I'm not like Sansa neither! I knew to run and I ran and now… now…"

She breathed in sharply, half a gasp, half a stifled sob.

"I'm not… I'm not…" she muttered, sniffling. She shoved her face into his shoulder. "I don't!"

"I'm here, whether you want me or not, Arya."

"You-" She sobbed, but swallowed it quickly as she could. She continued, her voice wavering. "That's dumb! That's… I don't need you! I don't…"

The girl sniffled again and Robb tightened her arms around her back ever-so-slightly.

It proved to be all Arya needed to let go.

The girl sobbed heavily and loudly into his shoulder, her hands fisted in the rough cloth of his tunic. Her legs collapsed out from under her and so Robb carried her over to one of the windows in the room.

Some fresh air always managed to do him wonders when his responsibilities became too much to bear. When his mind dulled and he began to brood.

He hoped it would help Arya too.

The girl, for her part, did not appear to notice the movement. She kept her face shoved into his shoulder and her fists clutched around his clothes. Even when he placed himself in the ledge and sat her across his lap, she did not move from his arms.

"I d-doooon't-" she insisted, shaking under the force of her sobbing. "I didn't mean it! I didn't!"

A coughing fit overtook her then, interspaced between gasps of air. Her shoulders heaved and, as the coughing abating, the sobbing overtook her once more.

"I-" She hiccupped. "I don't wanna- I don't wanna-"

A sob forced her to cut off her sentence and, while she was desperately sucking in air, he spoke.

"Don't want to march? …You need not-"

"No!" The girl squealed and he only just suppressed a wince at the shrillness. "No! I-I-I want to m-m-march! I want- I want- I want to go! I…"

"You can go," Robb assured her.

"I-I'm not- I'm not a kid!" She continued quickly, just as another fit of sobs over took her.

And Robb sighed, closing his eyes. "I know, Arya… Trust me, I know you are no child."

That seemed to appease her, for the girl stopped trying to talk amidst her cries. She sobbed into his shoulder for several minutes longer, her shoulders shaking all the while. Every gasp of breath she drew slowly grew more and more even. Less of a quiver plagued her even as the fresh mountain air embraced them – a welcome relief to the stuffy, hot air inside his temporary solar.

He stayed that way with her for the better part of an hour, even after her sobs quieted and her hands released his clothes. Even after she slightly twisted about in his lap, to face the mountains instead of the too-red-and-golden room behind them.

And silence overtook them.

But, eventually, Arya spoke. Her sniffles had long since stopped.

"…Robb?" The girl murmured, resolutely looking out into the mountains, rather than at him.

He did not raise the issue. "Yes, Arya?"

"Just… If you have a son, make sure he isn't like Joffrey… that little shit."

The question caught him so flat-footed that he released a deep belly laugh before he could help it.

"Like Joffrey," he chortled. "Arya! I'd eat that dullard's boot before I raised a son in his image!"

The girl snorted and, as he calmed himself, he saw the edge of her lips curl upward. "Good. So… You can have a wife, then."

Robb laughed again, though not as strongly as before, but did not respond.

The sun was setting over the mountains, after all, and it was a beautiful sight.

* * *

 _Robb's winding path through the Riverlands delays plans to assault Casterly Rock and so, he never sends Theon to the Iron Islands to ask for their support to take the castle. When the Ironborn attack the North, Winterfell is thusly never taken or even attacked._

 _Yoren, unharassed by Lannister men that were instead routed at Harroway, returns Arya to Riverrun and leaves with seventy-six new recruits – honorable and dedicated – from the northern army, their swords bought by the King in the North's promise to support their families._

 _King Renly does not have Catelyn – she is in Winterfell now, with Rickon - with him when he travels to Storm's End to meet with his brother, King Stannis. Without Lady Stark present, Brienne does not travel north with her._

* * *

 **A/N:** Fun fact, iron and bronze is actually a weaker metal than gold, so Robb's crown isn't stronger than southern ones. Ah well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him!

So, I know I originally meant to have some alternate points of view for this chapter but the words just wouldn't come to me. I have Robb's PoV done through the end of the War of the Five Kings and I've decided to just stick with that. It'll make the story simpler but less detailed than it would be with other viewpoints. A happy balance between quality and time spent writing for me. I hope you guys don't mind overly much!

Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I enjoyed reading your thoughts and your appreciation is what keeps me motivated to write/edit/proofread each of these chapters!

Now, to a few specific reviews:

 **X59:** You're right – Lancel was supposed to be in King's Landing for the entirety of the war. That's a mistake on my part. For some reason I had it in my head that he was with Tywin and Kevan, squiring for knights in their army after Robert's death. Ah well, hopefully it's a minor enough slip that too many people won't mind it. Thanks for the review! And for keeping me honest!

 **Anand891996:** I like the notes at the bottom of the chapter because they're shorter and more concise than making separate points of view for other characters. I really want to keep this story short and to the point. It's a different writing style for me – usually I'll fully explore every character that I can – but I like the change of pace thus far. I hope you don't mind the missing details too much! Either way, thanks for sharing your thoughts!

Till next time guys,

Phailen


	5. Chapter 5

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _Two months later, 299 – Robb Stark – Casterly Rock, The Westerlands_

Casterly Rock was a behemoth of a castle.

Nay, castle was the wrong word for it, for House Lannister's seat was carved from a mountain itself. Taller than even the wall in the North, Casterly Rock rose up above the seas to touch the sky, like some kind of fortress out of a child's storybook.

At the base, a natural cavern served as the main entrance to the castle itself. The passage was wide enough to fit two hundred men shoulder to shoulder and even from his spot several hundred feet away, Robb could hear the loud rumble of sea water moving about in the stone.

It was in that cave that he led his men just the previous night, the Smalljon's horn blowing loud enough for all to hear it.

But the horn was ignored, the signal unheard. The men he sent with Tyrion Lannister did not open the gates of Casterly Rock and so his horse was rebuffed, five-hundred men short of the four thousand he rode out with.

' _All according to my plans,'_ he thought, willing himself to believe in the Stark men he dressed as Lannisters.

The ones who were to wait for the _second_ night to open the gates, rather than the first. That was the Frey night, the night that the men dressed as mountain clansmen were to open the gates of Casterly Rock.

The men Tyrion knew of.

' _Treachery,'_ Robb thought further. _'You play into my hand, imp.'_

So long as his men succeeded in attaching themselves to the dwarf's party… so long as the one and ten men he never heard back from were in Casterly Rock…

Then the castle might just fall as the sun set.

A sigh escaped him as he turned away from the Lannister's seat of power, back toward his new command tent, freshly taken from the host of Lannister men that his army routed when they exited the pass under Golden Tooth.

It was a short battle. The men gathered under Stafford Lannister only half trained in the ways of war. His horse broke their ranks in three short charges and his foot followed up to cull what left behind.

All told, he lost only five hundred foot to the battle and an additional eight and forty horse. In exchange, he routed the last of the Lannisters' defenses in the Westerlands and captured Ser Lymond Vikary, Head of House Vikary, Lord Roland Crakehall and Lord Antario Jast. In addition to those heads of house, he captured dozens of other highborn soldiers forced from their comfortable seats of power by his campaign west.

It was a good battle, decisively won. Morale was high.

And then, the gates of Casterly Rock failed to open before his horse and morale came crashing back down.

He shoved the thoughts from his mind as he reached his command tent.

"-weakened! Stannis Baratheon and his ships captured half of King's Landing and even now they fight with the Lannisters over the city!" Lord Rickard Karstark was shouting, a turn from the normally taciturn man's behavior. "Methinks we should take them while they quibble with one another!"

"That's half way across-" Lord Wendel Manderly stared.

"And what of the Westerlands?!" Lady Mormont demanded. "They sit before us, fruit ripe for the picking! Are we to ignore their gold!?"

"Because the assault on Casterly Rock went so well," Lord Jason Mallister muttered. Robb only just managed to hear him as he made his way around his Lords and Ladies, to the rear of the tent, where Grey Wind sat at the table.

The thought made him smile. The direwolf could almost sit in on meetings for him, for he displayed a great many qualities reserved solely for humans.

"Aye!" The Greatjon bellowed. "We'll take their gold, I say! All of it! As reparations for their crimes against House Stark and all of the North!"

"My Lords and Ladies!" Robb called, his voice raised as he reached his open place along the table's edge. The raised voices died, some slower than others, but they all quieted in time.

"We will take Casterly Rock tonight."

A beat of silence washed over those in the tent, before voices washed over it just as easily.

"Casterly Rock, he says? Is he-" One muttered.

"Your Grace, surely you don't mean to assault the gates! We-"

"Aye! What the King says, goes!" The Greatjon shouted, glaring across the table at Lord Halys Hornwood.

"We've tried-"

"Aye!" Robb yelled, straining his voice. "Aye! We've tried, my Lords and Ladies! We've tried! But our assault on the castle last night was doomed to failure to begin with!"

Quickly, he carried on, before any more voices could be raised, for he saw many a Lord and Lady readying for another round of yelling. Some of them lost family in what was being called The Rout of the North.

And they were all _very_ angry over it.

"Those men were Freys, my Lords and Ladies! Each one dressed as a mountain clansmen of the Vale! I thought it queer for Tyrion Lannister, the dwarf, to dress not a single one in Lannister colors! And so I realized he meant to kill them once they reached Casterly Rock, the gates never to open for the North!"

He had their attention now, each one staring at him, some harder than others. The Greatjon and Rickard Karstark looked fit to burst into another shouting match. Lady Mormont was frowning heavily. Lord Tallhart only frowned.

But they all held their silence.

"And so, my Lords and Ladies, I sent one hundred Stark men ahead of the dwarf, dressed as Lannisters," he said, no longer having to yell to be heard. "Stragglers from Lord Jaime's march south, they were to be. Scouts to warn of northern horse giving chase. They were to attach themselves to the dwarf's party and tonight… tonight, one and ten Stark men reside within the halls of the Lion. They were not to answer the first horn, but the _second_. When the dwarf least expected it, happy and drunk off his victory."

Another beat of silence passed over the gathered men and women of the North.

And The Greatjon laughed. A great belly laugh shook his frame and he brought his meaty hand down on the solid oak table in front of him. "There stands my King! The Sly Wolf, indeed!"

"Well planned, Your Grace," Lord Bolton muttered, his arms crossed. "I am impressed."

"Lord Bolton measures his words!" Maege Mormont chortled. "Your Grace, we'll catch the lions with their pants 'round their ankles! Taken from the rear indeed!"

Lord Mallister colored at the jape but Lords Cerwyn, Flint and Norrey laughed uproariously at the idea.

"We ride tonight, friends!" Robb shouted. "We ride tonight! To take Casterly Rock!"

Time was of the essence, now. Should the dwarf hear of his plan then the taking of his seat would become nigh impossible.

Tyrion Lannister was right in pointing out that Robb could not siege the castle without ships, after all.

"Tonight!" The Greatjon repeated. "Tonight! The King in the North! The King in the North!"

"The King in the North!" The other Lords and Ladies shouted, slapping the table and raising their weapons into the air. "The King in the North!"

Grey Wind howled.

And Robb smiled.

* * *

 _Two hours later, 299 – Robb Stark – Casterly Rock, The Westerlands_

"Forward, men! Forward! We take The Rock tonight!" He bellowed over the pounding of the horses' hooves on the ground. Before them, the maw of Casterly Rock opened to the night, its craggy walls and uneven ground unseating the more unseasoned riders among his army. Still, of the five thousand horse he took in his charge, the vast majority made it into the cavern.

Where the gates of Casterly Rock hung open before them.

He grinned a wide grin, Grey Wind howling and barking beside him, the direwolf's legs pumping to keep pace with the horse. "We take The Rock tonight! For the North!"

"For the North!" His riders echoed. "The King in the North! The King in the North!"

They passed under the gates unmolested, flanked on either side by cheering men – for women were not a common site in the armies of the south – wearing no colors to them. His Stark men, no doubt.

He did not have long to think on the men that made this victory possible – _'Land for each of the one and ten that survived. Land and a home within the walls of my keep, should they wish it.'_ – for the pathway narrowed and proceeded upward. Twisting and turning, across dips and inclines, he and his horse rode and his direwolf ran. The passage narrowed until only ten could ride abreast and then widened again to double that before narrowing back down to only five across.

It plunged suddenly, a waterfall running over the stone and making it smooth, and then turned back to dirt and stone once more. By craggy points and holes in the walls through which the moon shone he road. Up and up and up and further up until he thought he could go no higher and his horse panted with the effort.

But then, he turned a corner and saw before him lines of Lannister men. Behind them, the city of Casterly Rock opened up beyond the mouth of the cavern. The buildings were painted red and gold and the keep itself rose up behind them, in the far distance.

Amidst the scenery, he saw scores of people running about. Some were in the process of donning armor. Others were fleeing the streets and the coming battle. Still more were men shouting commands, rallying men-at-arms even as they were roused from their slumber.

They would need to break through this bottleneck before that happened. Before any sort of organized defense could be mounted in earnest.

Those thoughts were pushed from his head, however, when arrows began flying into his men.

"Shields!" He howled, hefting his own up just as three arrows impacted it and two more _clanged_ off the armor of his warhorse. "Shields! Shields up! Charge!"

His men replied in a wordless shout and with him charged The Greatjon, Dacey and Jorelle Mormont, Wendel Manderly and Robin Flint and Eddard Karstark. Arrows pelted them as they reached the men but none made it through the gaps in their armor. He heard shouts and cries behind him but-

Eddard Karstark went down with a scream, red pouring from his throat.

Robb screamed in rage, bringing his sword down on the first man he could reach. The Lannister's head fell from his shoulders and Grey Wind jumped on another one, mauling and biting and tearing and-

Pain erupted in his shoulder and he glanced down to find an arrow embedded there. The man who loosed it was already reaching for another.

He yelled again and kicked his horse into motion, rushing toward the second line of Lannister foot. The first line had been broken by their charge. The archers lay beyond another line, the third.

"To me!" He called. "To me! To me! Break their lines! Break them open!"

And so they did, but the men on the ground held this time. He saw Robin Flint's horse go down and his own reared up when a spear struck at its leg.

"Shit," he swore, falling from the saddle as his horse toppled over. His head impacted the ground hard and, immediately, white gathered at the edges of his vision. Above him, Beren Tallhart looked down from atop his warpony, the boy's eyes wide enough that Robb could see the whites of them.

" _No!_ " The Greatjon howled and suddenly, the man's bulk was in front of him, swinging that giant greatsword to and fro. Each cleave spread red throughout the air.

' _Blood,'_ he thought slowly. _'Blood. Blood.'_

"You won't have him, you bastards!" The man howled, throwing another man in red against the cavern walls with sheer strength alone. "You'll not get through me! You'll never get through me!"

A head ensconced in red and gold steel landed on the ground near him even as hands gripped his arms. He heard Grey Wind howling and barking and yapping and saw flashes of his fur around The Greatjon's bulk.

And then he was on his feet, leaning back on-

He turned his head.

Leaning back on Beren Tallhart. The lad was his squire, his mind recalled. He blinked once, then twice. The sounds of men dying and screaming echoed off the cavern walls and… and…

'… _Where?'_

"Ack!" The Greatjon howled.

"Da!" The Smalljon's voice called out.

"Break the lines, son! Break- grph!"

Robb turned back to the man's voice, only to find no less than five men in red armor – _'Lannisters!'_ – stabbing their swords into his bulk. Still, the man found the strength to lift his greatsword and take two of them with him to the ground. There were already no less than a dozen bodies, oozing red lifeblood over the rock-

' _Rock!'_ His mind screamed. The sounds of battle were muffled to his ears. _'Rock! Casterly Rock!'_

And it all came back to him in a flood of memories. The assault. The charge. The Lannisters. His ploy to take the castle.

And Eddard Karstark. And Robin Flint.

And The Greatjon.

A snarl appeared on his lips and his blood turned to ice. A coldness overtook him and he growled in time with a ferocious snarl loosed from Grey Wind's throat.

One last line of Lannisters stood beyond this one, behind them, the archers loosed arrow after arrow into their ranks.

And just in front of him, lay the Lord of House Umber.

" _Greatjon!"_ He howled, his eyes wide with rage. The man was his most steadfast follower. The first to declare him King in the North. The first to offer him support. And now…

Now he lay dead in front of him.

He yanked his spare sword free from the scabbard at Beren Tallhart's waist and twisted back around to face the Lannisters, snarl still in place on his lips. Blood still frozen in his veins.

"For The Greatjon!" He howled, his voice straining under the intensity with which he shouted. Grey Wind let loose a litany of barks and growls next to him.

He charged, barreling through the second line with his shoulder lowered and sprinted at the third.

Arrows flew at him before he reached the Lannisters and one found a gap in his armor but he scarcely felt it. It did not break his stride nor slow him in the slightest, the cold fury coursing through him urged him on. It urged him to draw blood. To cut down the men that cut down The Greatjon.

"For The Greatjon!" He shouted again, side stepping the slash of a Lannister man's sword and beheading him in one smooth motion. He turned, swatting aside another sword with his shield even as Grey Wind took another man to the ground beside him.

He used his shield to bash in the face of the man that swung at him and lunged forward, plunging his sword deep in the man behind the first he killed. As that man fell, Robb grabbed his sword from his loose fingers and stuck it into the side of another even as that man tried – too late – to swing across his body at the King in the North.

Grey Wind jumped on another man in red, the direwolf's jaws soaked in blood, even as Robb grabbed the dagger from his side and plunged it into the neck of a retreating man. He took the sword from the dying man's hands and shouldered his way over the last of the Lannisters in the line, clearing them and opening up his way to the archers.

They shot at him more as he charged and two more arrows found their mark, one in his side and the other in his forearm, but they failed to slow him too.

He stabbed the first man dead before he had a chance to draw his sword. The second as well. Grey Wind appeared in a flash of snarling fangs and flying spittle as he took another to the ground at the King's side.

A sword swung at him but reflexes honed by years of practice and months of war allowed him to present his side to the man, the overhand swing clanging noisily off of his spaulder. He ignored that man and the pain the blunted swing caused his shoulder, instead turning to parry another man's stab, throwing the Lannister's sword to the ground. Robb stabbed the first while he recovered from his botched swing and then the swordless man too. He kicked another Lannister away from him as the man backed away from Grey Wind and seized another by the arm, forcibly tossing him across the cavern with a strength only made possible by his cold fury.

The Lannister archers were panicked now and he reveled in seeing fear in the whites of their eyes.

But he offered them no mercy.

Two men swung at him but his shield intercepted the short swords, breaking to pieces and falling off of his arm in the process. He did not let that stop him either. From the next man he killed, he took a sword with his off hand.

Grey Wind dove at a man on his right so he turned to his left and swatted away another blade with his good hand-

Pain erupted in his back and he plunged the sword in his left into the gut of the man in front of him, turning to find a man in heavily adorned armor behind him.

"Jaime Lannister," The King in the North snarled, swinging his sword forward without hesitation.

But the man was no slouch. He side stepped the blow cleanly, easily. "The Sly Wolf himself!" The man responded, jabbing at him with the blade in his hand.

Robb stepped to the side, avoiding the blow and knocked away the follow up slash with a snarl on his face.

The man's eyes widened. "Quite the strength you've got there, Stark. Deathly eyes too!"

The King in the North did not reply with words, but rather, with a lunge. His attack was knocked away and he took a glancing blow on the forearm for his trouble.

Still, he did not feel the pain.

He swung again and the Lannister heir caught the blow with his shield, immediately dropping to a knee when Robb's strength overpowered his own.

"Like the bloody Mountain," the elder man spat, his sword whipping up in an attack too fast for Robb to dodge.

He took the steel to his side, the edge of the sword cutting through the straps of his breastplate until it hung loosely about his torso. The King in the North tried to raise his sword again but found his arm entrapped by loose leather ties.

The Lannister man saw his struggles and laughed. "So ends the King in the North!" He shouted, pulling his arm back-

And then, Grey Wind lunged at him.

Jaime Lannister staggered, his eyes wide, under the weight of the monstrous wolf, the armor around his arm shrieking from the force behind the jaws clamped around them. He barely managed to use his shield to knock away Robb's sloppily made attack and the next one after it threw his arm away from his red-armored body.

Grey Wind shook his massive head then and Jaime, already horribly off balance, was pulled from his feet, tossed to the ground under both the weight of the direwolf and his own armor. He kicked up at Robb but the Sly Wolf swung his sword down, found a joint in the armor and sheered half the man's leg clean off at the knee.

' _Were it Ice, he would have lost the limb entirely.'_

Jaime Lannister stifled a cry and Grey Wind shook him again. The man hurriedly showed Robb the one hand he could still control.

"I surrender, Stark! I surrender! Call your beast off! Call it off!"

Robb stilled and glanced around him for his squire, calling Grey Wind to him with a whistle as he did so. The Tallhart lad would need to take Jaime Lannister prisoner, but when he looked around, he found only the corpses of the Lannisters he slew.

In fact, his men of the North were still stuck behind the second line of Lannisters. What archers remained were either fleeing or approaching, blades in hand.

He exhaled heavily, his mouth set into a frown. There were two dozen still, easily, even after he slew…

' _How many did I kill?'_

And suddenly, he felt tired. So, so tired. His arms grew heavy and his chest and shoulder and arm ached and stung where the arrows bit into him. His back burned and his side felt as though it were on fire. One arm remained hampered by his ruined breastplate. His head pounded from his spill to the ground, the crown on it felt constricting, now.

"Grey Wind," he murmured, his words slurred through clumsy lips and his frown twisting into something resembling a scowl. "To me."

The direwolf snarled.

His scowl formed in full. "We fight."

The first Lannister charged him, shouting a wordless battlecry, and Robb knocked the reckless attack away from him, turning to follow up-

Another man jabbed at him and he threw himself away from that lunge, Grey Wind tackling the first man to the ground even as the red-clad man shouted in fear. Robb held his silence, labored as his breathing was becoming, and parried away the second man's next attack.

' _Where is my shield? Where are my men?"_

A third joined the attack and Robb found himself stumbling back under the combined assault. Still, he fought back, turning aside the sword of one and sending him down to a knee. But still another struck true and his other arm twanged in pain, a fresh line of red carved into it.

And then, a cry erupted from the Lannister lines farther down the cavern pass. Horse hooves suddenly began thundering and, just as Robb parried away one last blow, a sword took off the head of the man in front of him.

The King in the North released an explosive breath and fell back against the cavern wall, clutching his shoulder in pain. Horseflesh was running by him now, clad in the Greys of the Starks and the colors of their riders' houses. Each was a blur and with every passing moment his head drooped lower and lower, until his chin nearly touched his chest.

By the gods, he was _weary_.

"Your Grace," Dacey Mormont called. He lifted his head to find her climbing down from her horse. Quickly, she put her shoulder under his arm, lifting him to his feet.

He breathed out quickly, the breath passing between his teeth in a hiss.

"Quit whining, Your Grace," the woman continued, hoisting him up on her horse with the help of another – Wendel Manderly, he recognized. Quickly, she climbed up behind him. "Those are flesh wounds, that's all!"

Robb laughed a breathless laugh, quiet and subdued. He felt tired still, so very tired.

He also had half a mind to tell Dacey Mormont to go fuck herself. These wounds _hurt!_

"The city will be yours' within the hour, Your Grace," Wendel Manderly intoned from his horse, kicking the beast into trotting alongside Dacey's. All around them, the northern horse swarmed into the city. It would take some time for the second wave – consisting of half his remaining foot and five hundred of his remaining horse – to reach them.

He only hoped there would still be some fighting to be had then. The Lannisters were only just forming something resembling a respectable defense and they were vastly out-numbered by the first wave of his forces alone. Arya was with that second wave and he promised her fighting.

She would be cross with him if she did not get to see battle.

"Beren?" He asked in a mutter, eyeing the keep in the distance. It rose up over the rest of Casterly Rock like a finger pointing to the sky, all golden and shining.

"The lad is alright," Dacey responded. "He got back on his horse once you were on your feet… though at that point, you were already half way through the Lannister lines."

Theon Greyjoy laughed on his other side – Robb only just noticed the boy's presence. "Aye, Your Grace! You went at them howling like a wild animal! Like a god amongst men! You slew _at least_ three dozen men in the time it took us to get by one line!"

"Perhaps two dozen," Dacey allowed. "Still… t'was a sight I'll not forget for the rest of my years, Your Grace. You broke the Lannister lines and paved the way for your horse to enter the city, on _foot_."

Robb hummed, closing his eyes. There was screaming around him now, as his men broke down doors and searched houses. Lannister men-at-arms ran from his northern army and, though they passed by several larger skirmishes, his five thousand horse vastly outnumbered what remained of the Lannisters' thrice routed army. The Mountain still had a goodly number of their horse, too, but he was nowhere to be found, more than likely still in the Riverlands, sacking and looting and pillaging. Without Tywin to call him back, he would probably remain there too, doing as he pleased.

' _Casterly Rock… is ours!'_ He realized numbly. His shoulder stung, his back ached, his arms burned, his stomach felt horrible and his head was still pounding… but the seat of House Lannister would fly Stark banners by night's end!

"We did it, Dacey," he said quietly, his drooping eyes growing heavier still. "Dacey, Theon, Wendel. We've... We've won our war..."

He grinned one last grin and, as they responded, his vision faded and he knew no more.

Only the howling of Grey Wind followed him into his slumber.

* * *

 _Some time later…_

 _He was running through the streets, senses alive and blood pounding. Everywhere, he could smell man. Dead men. Dying men. Live men._

 _All men._

 _None escaped his notice._

 _Next to him, Alpha-not-alpha rode, swinging her sharp-pointy-stick from atop the tall creatures that men kept. She was whooping and yelling in joy, not in pain. Not like the wolf's sister._

 _She who had her own pack, now. She was alone._

 _He jumped at a man that ran at Alpha-not-alpha, snapping his jaws around the soft man-flesh of his neck. It cracked and crumpled under his strength and he heard more whooping and hollering come from atop the tall creature._

 _He threw his head back and joined his howl to that of hers'._

* * *

 _Without Tyrion Lannister acting as Hand of the King, the plot to use wildfire on Stannis' ships is never hatched. Without Tywin Lannister to push forward negotiations with the Tyrells, the marriage is never arranged between Joffrey and Margaery. Thus, King Stannis Baratheon takes the city easily and even now sieges the Red Keep. His fleet, having smashed the royal ships, blockade the city by sea while his men do the same by land. The Lannisters starve._

* * *

 **A/N:** What's up guys? Hope each of you had a nice Christmas and here's hoping New Year's Eve will be the same!

Apologies for the lateness on this chapter – with the holiday season, I forgot that this was my weekend to post. Still, I got it in before the deadline. Just in time!

The Lannisters are now in some trouble, given Stannis' plan to take King's Landing has gone so much better than it did in the books. But don't count them out yet – The Tyrells and The Martells both still have uncommitted military might. And the Riverlands' men were never killed… only scattered, so they're largely still in this game too.

Anywho, onto a few review responses:

 **Nate88:** Robb's choice of a Manderly bride was partially because the only other bride from a major house was Karstark (that I could find) but mostly because he wanted to keep it in the North this time around. The Manderlys will end up being passed over to his plans regarding Moat Cailin now, after all… gotta keep the vassals happy! Thanks for your review!

 **CharmingButIrrational:** I hope you're still around because you brought up a good point, one I missed: Robb did indeed order Lancel's death without swinging the sword. A mistake on my part, one I'll correct when I go back over the chapters after the story is finished. As to your other point, I think it's perfectly logical to assume no one could recognize Tywin if he changed this clothes into that of a minor noble or maybe a knight of some kind. There are no pictures in this world, after all, the only way to capture one's likeness is a portrait and those are neither cheap nor common. The folks up in the North (even the Freys and the Mallisters) have likely only seen Tywin in passing, if at all. With the muck and dirt from a battlefield covering him and different colors/clothing to disguise him, I think it'd be very, very easy for him to be missed. Whether you continue reading or not, thanks for sharing your thoughts!

 **X59:** I sort've got to your point in the response above. Tywin was captured in battle and, rather than make it known to the North who he was, disguised himself. Somebody important enough to not be killed outright but still passable enough to be seen only as worth a minor bounty. A knight fits the bill… or maybe a minor noble from House Swyft – a well-known but ultimately mundane house. Thanks for your review!

 **Melubarv:** Nice catch with Bran! As of right now, the story hasn't covered that possibility though – still, I'm impressed you recognized the possibility all the same. Deepwood Motte is indeed free, now, I must've missed it when I mentioned the aftermath of the Ironborn attack, something else to fix when I go over the chapters again! As for Brienne, I don't think she's the kind to go down without a fight. But without Catelyn in the south… who knows where she'll end up? Time will tell! Thanks for sharing your thoughts.

And to all my reviewers in general, again, thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts with me. I appreciate it greatly and, more than once, a review has given me that extra push to get over a scene giving me trouble. So thank you!

Till next time,

Phailen


	6. Chapter 6

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _One month later, 299 – Robb Stark – Casterly Rock, The Westerlands_

He celebrated his seventeenth nameday in Casterly Rock, a grand feast held in its honor.

The food and drink was taken exclusively from the stores of the Lannisters, of course.

"Seventeen years, and already our King has conquered The Lannister seat!" Wylis Manderly bellowed from a lower table in Casterly Rock's hall. It was a thing of gold and red, each pillar and window shone like one thousand stars and the marble floor gleamed like a thing from the most extravagant of dreams.

It was gaudy, it was wasteful and Robb Stark hated every bit of it.

He preferred the iron and wood of the north, dull and less impressive though they may be. Where the materials used in building their castles were taken carefully, each brick laid and tree chopped done so only out of necessity. There was no marble or gold or red rubies or any excess at all.

Winter was all too unforgiving and his father always said that the wasteful were among the first to perish.

But, despite his annoyance, he stood from his seat and summoned up a smile for his good father to-be.

"I owe this victory to the men and women of the North!" He shouted, pausing when a cheer rose up from the men in the hall. At his high table, he invited Lord Karstark and Smalljon Umber to dine alongside he and Arya, who sat to his right. The rest of his Lords and Ladies ate and drank at the long tables stretching the length of the hall.

"And were it not for the bravery of the Stark men who opened the gates before us, we would still be stuck out in the wild!" He continued, gesturing toward the table that sat the eight surviving Stark men who dressed as Lannisters. The lot of them already looked out of place in their leathers, given most in the hall were dressed in fine tunics and dresses. Now that attention had been drawn to them directly, they looked incredibly shocked and not a small bit uncomfortable. "A drink, Lords and Ladies! A drink to the health of these men! To their families! And to their new land! Within mine own holdings!"

He lifted his goblet amongst more cheers from his bannermen, extending it toward the table that held the Stark men. They looked amongst each other – still shocked but no longer so uncomfortable - smiling and laughing and calling his praise.

King of Winter, they called him now. Lion Slayer too.

And among the men and women who witnessed his charge into the Lannister lines, he earned the name Robb the Undying.

It was all a bit much to him, but the names pleased his men and offered them easy insults to throw at their Lannister prisoners, so he bore them with pride. For if such a simple thing could keep his men happy, then he would gladly overcome the embarrassment that first came with men awarding him titles he himself never claimed.

"Tonight, we feast at the Lannisters' meats and wines! They so graciously offered them! Who are we to refuse!?"

Laughter, loud and rowdy echoed up from his Lords and Ladies. Wylis Manderly held his belly while he let loose a great, howling chortle. Lady Maege Mormont and her daughters – Dacey and Jorelle – whooped and hollered and bashed their mugs together. Lord Bolton and Lord Glover, sitting side-by-side, only raised their goblets mutely.

He sat with a sigh and turned to Arya. The girl was tearing at her meat and indulging a bit too heavily in the wine he allowed her.

' _Though she would insist I had no right to deny her it,'_ he thought wryly.

"You've had your first taste of battle, sister. Did you enjoy it?"

"Mmhmm," she mumbled around a chunk of bread. "Grey Wind ran with me for a time."

Robb's eyes widened before he could stop them, a dream he had the night of the siege returning to him. It had been a queer experience, as though he had been… _inside_ his direwolf. He thought nothing of it when he woke, days later, deciding instead that it was a hallucination due to the milk of the poppy he was fed as he recovered.

An incredibly vivid, overwhelmingly realistic hallucination.

But a hallucination all the same.

But now…

"Did…" He paused, wracking his mind for what he saw in the dream. There was not much, admittedly. All he could remember…

"Did Grey Wind take a man to the ground who ran at you, after you took the head of another?"

"Mmmm," Arya hummed, grasping a cut of meat with her fingers. Mother would have had a fit. "Yeah! I think so, anyway. A lot happened. I killed a lot of those fucking Lannisters."

Robb winced. The girl still overemphasized her curses, as though she reveled in every chance she got to say them. Part of him knew he should scold her for it but… she'd been to war, he was not about to ask something of her that he would not ask of his men.

"I see," he said instead, his mind spinning. Could it not have been a dream after all? Could he have truly seen…

' _Nay. 'Tis not possible. One cannot see through a beast's eyes.'_

"Your Grace," Smalljon's voice said, to his left.

Robb turned to find the large man looking down at him, his lips formed into a straight line.

"Aye, Smalljon?"

"Is this war truly over?"

The King in the North nodded. "Tis over, now. We'll take our spoils from The Rock, then from Golden Tooth. Retrieve Princess Sansa, and head north once more."

The Smalljon hummed. "I am relieved. I should think that I would not like to see another war in mine own life. They are tiresome affairs."

"Aye," Robb agreed, hesitating as he swirled the Lannister wine in his cup. "Your father, The Greatjon… he-"

"Please, Your Grace," the man whispered. "It is too fresh still."

"I understand," he said, meaning it fully. "You and I are of the same age. When I received word my father had been executed, with Ice, no less, I felled a tree. With my sword."

The Smalljon released a startled chortle. "I imagine you needed a new sword, after that."

"Aye. And some rest for my arms. T'was not my most rational decision."

The man released another laugh. This one louder and more joyful. "You certainly make stories for yourself, Your Grace. Robb the Undying, they call you now. I wouldn't've believed it, had I not seen it with mine own eyes… Six and ten men in just so many seconds between you and your direwolf. And Jaime Lannister too. The Kingslayer himself! A one trick pony if there ever was one… " The man exhaled heavily, shaking his head.

He scoffed under his breath once, shaking his head still, even as his lips grew into a grin.

Then, he jumped to his feet, raising his mug high. "The King in the North!" He bellowed. "King in the North! Robb the Undying! King in the North! Robb the Undying!"

And his bannermen picked up the chant. Arya too, the blasted girl knew how it embarrassed him.

And so they ate. They drank. And they celebrated not only his seventeenth nameday, but victory for House Stark and The North in the War of the Five Kings.

They were free.

* * *

 _Two weeks later, 299 – Robb Stark – Casterly Rock, The Westerlands_

Tyrion Lannister was beheaded shortly after The North took Casterly Rock, his corpse thrown off the battlements to be swallowed up by the seas.

Robb passed the sentence.

And so too did he swing the blade.

It was disquieting, murdering a man who could not fight back, but it was one of the many duties he accepted when his crown was laid upon his head.

He only hoped that duty would not become too familiar to him.

Now, he sat in the Lord's study of Casterly Rock. Like the main hall, these chambers too were gaudy and wasteful, all golds and silks, but he had his men pick them clean on the first day he woke – spoils they were all too happy to take for themselves. Now, only bare stone and a desk remained in the circular room. A lone banner hung from the walls behind his table, that of the Stark direwolf. Tall windows, all unadorned, let the sun's fingers filter into the room, keeping him warm and allowing him all the light he needed to read.

And read he did, in the days after the siege.

Reports detailing how the Ironborn had been pushed out of the North at long last proved to be the happiest of the news that reached him. The loss of their commanders demoralized the men and unmade their discipline, allowing for what men of his remained north to take back their castles.

But, as rumor would have it, the Ironborn left so that they could hold a kingsmoot after Balon Greyjoy, the man who dared claim the North in the name of the Iron Islands, was blown from the top of his towers by a strong wind. The old man died a fool's death upon the rocky shores of his beloved ocean and his drowned god and now Euron Greyjoy was king.

Robb knew he needed to get back to the North, and fast, lest the new King of the Iron Isles decide he wanted to have another go at the sons and daughters of the First Men.

Among his other letters were the writings of his mother and Wynafryd Manderly.

Catelyn Stark was furious when he refused the Riverlanders' offer of fealty. She only heard of it sometime while he marched to Golden Tooth and only now did a raven arrive, bearing her thoughts on the matter.

Disappointed was not a strong enough word for her feelings toward him.

He expected it, for her family's words included 'loyalty', but his mother's disapproval hurt still. Robb the boy wished to win her approval and her love back. He wanted to return to her arms in Winterfell and never leave, content to live the rest of his life enjoying the peace he and his men won.

But Robb the boy was a fool. A fool who as good as murdered his very own brother in his arrogance. Robb the boy was a memory, distant and one Robb the King could only be allowed to remember in passing.

For Robb the King knew how difficult a choice could be. Robb the King knew what it was to send men and women to their deaths in the name of lost honor and murdered kin. Robb the King knew he could not entertain soft thoughts of winning back his mother's approval. That would take absorbing the Riverlands into his domain and doing that – if the Tullys even allowed him in Riverrun at all – would be the death of his fledgling kingdom.

No, he could not please her, no matter how much he wished to win her approval.

His letter back to her was formal, overtly so. It felt awkward and _wrong_ to write, but he put pen to parchment all the same. His mother would have to deal with her family's lands being put to the torch.

And he would have to deal with her displeasure.

Another burden to bear.

Wynafryd's letter, of the two, was Robb's favorite by far.

It came with news from Moat Cailin and it was the very first time he saw her penmanship. Her letters were neat, overly so, as though she paid extra attention to making them organized. They were not delicate or fancy or curly or anything like he saw from Sansa but neither were they the unorganized scrawl that Arya favored. Instead, they found something of a middle-ground – feminine in their slant and size but mannish in their blockiness.

Her words were awkward and stilted, as though she herself wrote half the letter and had the other half dictated to her. Robb could not tell which belonged to her and which belonged to her advisors but the overall message pleased him. It read as a formal acceptance of their betrothal and an attempt to start a conversation both.

Writing the return letter was his favorite over the one he sent to Mother, as well.

A knock came at the door, shaking him from musings, and Alyn appeared shortly thereafter.

"Your Grace," the man said, bowing. Once he straightened: "Lord Mallister begs a word."

A frown appeared on the young king's face. His refusal of the Tully's appeal to become one of his banners had soured not only relations between he and his mother, but he and Lord Jason Mallister too. Still, the man stayed with his men, eager to see the Lannisters that ruined the Riverlands brought to heel. And now, at the end of a victorious campaign against the lions, the King in the North was left wondering what the Lord of Seagard would do.

They had Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister as prisoners – the Lord of Casterly Rock and the next after him, alongside his brother. If that was not a victory that satisfied Lord Mallister, then he would most certainly be left unhappy.

Robb was done with this war.

"See him in."

Alyn nodded and retreated from the doorway, the Lord of Seagard appeared in the guardsman's place shortly thereafter.

"Lord Mallister," Robb said, nodding to one of the chairs in front of his desk. "Please, sit. Would you care for some wine?"

"Lannister wine," the brown haired man said, bowing his head ever so slightly. The laugh lines on his face become more prominent with his smile. "I'll never turn down Lannister wine."

The young king allowed himself a matching smile for he shared in that sentiment, and poured two cups of wine. That he did it with his own hands surprised some of the Riverlords and southron men, so used to seeing cupbearers and servants do that sort of thing. Robb thought the notion of forcing a man to pour wine foolish and unnecessary, however. More dangerous than pouring it himself, too.

At least that way, he would know his drink was safe and unaltered, so long as the skin itself came to him still sealed with wax.

Some of his nobles thought the entire act beneath him but what disapproval they had for it was far outweighed by the success he brought them in this war. For now, at least.

Lord Mallister accepted the goblet silently when it was offered to him and together they sipped at the red liquid.

The man opposite him hummed. "There's not a drink sweeter than wine taken from your enemy."

"Indeed."

A second of silence passed between them and Robb used the opportunity to slide the portrait of Wynafryd, her letter alongside his mother's, and his reports to the side of the desk.

"You freed my liegelord from the Lannister siege," Jason Mallister started, staring down into his cup as he swirled the liquid within. "As you said you would, Your Grace."

"Aye, I did." He stopped there. Unaware of what it was the older man wanted, Robb wished to let him speak before he himself spoke too much. Elaborated too excessively.

He was not certain this man was a man he could trust.

"Methinks…" The man hesitated, drinking another mouthful of his wine. "Methinks you did that – freeing the Tullys – not because they were your mother's family, but because you wanted to make the Lannisters pay."

Robb slowly set his cup down on the spot he cleared of papers. "The thought of revenge is a powerful influence," he allowed.

"Indeed, Your Grace," Lord Mallister nodded. "Indeed it is… Truthfully, I… I went south with you at first because my liegelord needed my aid. Because you promised to free him and I had a duty to fulfill. My honor to uphold."

"You did right by the Tullys, Lord Mallister. You need not worry."

The man shook his head. "But I _must_ worry, Your Grace. I did indeed do right… I sent men to their deaths to save my liegelord and now, he is safe, Hoster and Edmure Tully both. But for how long?"

Robb blinked, a frown tugging his lips downward. "What do you mean to say, Lord Mallister? Speak plainly."

"I do not speak of murder," the man said. "Those words were poorly chosen and this being such a difficult topic…" He shook his head. "I do not mean to plot against the Tullys. They are good and noble Lords. Just. Fair.

"…But I fear I have my doubts, now. I do not think young Edmure Tully fit to lead, King Robb, were I completely truthful. The man led his foot out of his castle, a castle you freed for him, only to find The Mountain that Rides and the horse that followed him on the Red Fork! Only to be routed for the third time in so many years! How can I look upon that and Hoster Tully's failing health and not worry? For the Riverlands? For my _family?"_

The man's shoulders slumped and he shut his eyes, speaking no further. Robb too held his silence, for though he had an idea of what the man was hinting at, he wanted to hear the words spoken aloud.

"I worry, Your Grace. And after seeing your men win battle after battle after battle under your leadership and expertise, I see what a leader of men _should_ be. I see shrewdness and intelligence that – the Seven bless his soul – Edmure Tully does not have. Mayhaps if his uncle, The Blackfish, were to return from The Vale and offer his knowledge…"

Lord Mallister shook his head and threw back a mouthful of the Lannister wine. "I've rambled on long enough. Your Grace… King Robb, I would join your bannermen – and the Freys likewise – if you should have me- _us_."

And there it was.

Robb had an inkling of what the man wanted when he began to question the leadership of the Tullys. When he compared that leadership to his own, though, he knew with certainty what would come next.

Such a thing was not without precedent. He need only look to the Manderlys of White Harbor to find an example of a family leaving one ruler for another. They were exiled, though, the Mallisters and the Freys were suggesting they leave the Riverlands willingly.

"This… This is a difficult thing you ask of me, Lord Mallister. The Tullys of the Riverlands would never again call the North friend and our food is to be brought up through their lands. Mine own Lords and Ladies would hang me by my toes for even considering taking the Freys as a northern house…"

He scoffed. The negatives could be outweighed by positives, especially considering that should the North claim the Twins and Moat Cailin both, being invaded from the south would likely never again be a problem.

Not with two strongholds controlling the chokepoint that was the Neck. The Freys alone held such a massive strategic river crossing that the fact they commanded nearly five thousand men alone was only an afterthought.

No, the decision to bring the Mallisters and the Freys into the North was a sound one and his Lords and Ladies would see that. Food could be brought by the seas instead of through the Riverlands; White Harbor's fleet would need strengthening though such a thing was not impossible given the spoils this war had provided his realm.

He hummed.

Suddenly, taking a Manderly wife became much more than simply appeasing one of his banners for being passed over with regard to Moat Cailin. Now it was a relationship his crown needed to maintain, lest his realm's supply of food by sea be threatened.

Mayhap he should offer a Manderly man a place among his house guard too?

Thoughts for a later time, at any rate.

"Tell me, Lord Mallister," he said, refocusing his mind on the conversation at hand. "What reason do I have to believe you any more loyal to me than to House Tully?"

The elder man scowled and glanced at the stone floor.

"I know how this looks – I come before you when my liegelord is weak and so you think I might do the same to you. But I've seen you fight, King Robb. I've seen you lead men and you've impressed me enough to ignore Lord Tully's calls for me to stay behind in Riverrun with his men."

The King in the North only just kept himself from reacting to that bit of knowledge. He was unaware that his Mallister – and, possibly, Frey - forces had been asked to stay behind. At the same time, ire grew in his mind at the gall Edmure Tully possessed to demand swords that only just freed his castle be given to him over his own army.

Liegelord or not, there was something to be said of gratitude. Naïve the thought may be, it offended Robb on a personal level that his uncle tried to take men from the army that made him a free man.

"But I am not so honorless that I would reject my sworn Lord only because his lands and holdings are sacked and his men are scattered," Mallister continued. "I would fight for the Tullys to the end of my days, if only I could truly believe that it would help restore the Riverlands! …But I cannot tell myself that lie. I cannot see Edmure Tully bringing prosperity to his lands. I cannot see any way this ends but in destruction for his – and my – family.

"And so, I come to you, King Robb. I wish only to see my family live and I find that my fortunes are much more favorable in the North than in the Riverlands. Edmure Tully has proven himself an incompetent, irrational leader where you've been nothing but shrewd and level-headed."

The man paused, breathing in deeply as his rant came to an end. " _That_ is why I ask to join the North, King Robb. _That_ is why I forsake my liegelord. You are the leader that he will never be!"

Despite himself, he was flattered by the man's words. His crown weighed heavily atop his brow and with each of his men that died, he questioned himself and his decisions. Doubts and questions raged about in his mind daily and only the fact that his Lords and Ladies still followed him soothed those chaotic thoughts. That Lord Mallister thought enough of his leadership to dishonor his name by turning away from his liegelord…

It was a boon that Robb accepted gratefully. It suggested that he was not, in fact, as incompetent as he feared. That his battles were won only by luck. That he was a child playing at war.

He had come a long way since his blunder with Bran, grown and learned much.

"The North will be stronger for it, Lord Mallister," he said quietly, levelly. The voice of a king. "Kneel. Say your vows. And join with your brothers and sisters of the North. But be wary… Winter comes, and winter culls the weak like nothing else on this world."

* * *

 _Later that night, 299 – Robb Stark – Casterly Rock, The Westerlands_

"The Freys?!" Lord Flint demanded. "The weasels?! King Robb! You cannot accept the-"

"I have, Lord Flint," Robb responded, talking over the man himself and the rest of his Lords and Ladies as they murmured.

They sat now in chairs in his temporary solar, positioned around the circular room along the walls. Karstark, to his right. Then Umber, Glover, Flint, Mallister, Norrey, Bolton, Cerwyn, Hornwood, Manderly, Mormont, Forrester, Frey and Tallhart.

His sister, Arya, lingered by a window behind him. The sword Jon gifted her, Needle, lay on her hip in its scabbard. Her hair now reached the nape of her neck – the absolute longest he could get her to agree to keep it. Together with her tunic and pants she still looked more boy than girl.

One chair along the wall sat empty – that of Wull. The mountain man was sent west with three thousand men and one thousand horse to take the castles Feastfires, seat of House Prester, and Kayce, seat of House Kenning. With him were Theon Greyjoy and Patrek Mallister. They left not long after his nameday feast and would likely just now be arriving at their destinations.

Robb himself sat behind his desk, papers spread about the surface in front of him. Most were reports of his troops in Golden Tooth now, he tracked their progress meticulously as they journeyed down from the fortress with all the gold and foodstuffs they could carry. Lord Leo Lefford was not pleased but, in Robb's own opinion, the man was lucky to be left with his family, a free man rather than a prisoner once more.

Now, those two thousand men waited outside the walls of Casterly Rock as what remained of his foot marched down the caverns to join them. His horse would follow. He left the movement of the men and women in the capable hands of Dacey Mormont, daughter of Lady Mormont, and Wendel Manderly, second son of Wyman Manderly and brother to his good-father-to-be, Wylis.

"House Mallister and House Frey see no way forward with the Riverlands and so they have petitioned me to join the North. To join with the men and women they've fought and bled and died with over the past two years. I found it hard to refuse them," he continued, nodding to Jason Mallister and Hosteen Frey, Walder Frey's sixth son in all, born first by his third wife. The man was large, though not as big as the Smalljon, but strong all the same. He was the most senior Frey sent south with Robb's armies.

Clearly, Lord Frey wanted to keep his cards close to his chest at the beginning of the war, else he would have sent a more senior son with the northern men and women.

"The Tullys do not have the strength to complain," Lord Bolton murmured. "I only wish this was done after we returned north. Riverrun lay between us and our keeps."

Robb nodded. "We march east, Lord Roose. The better to sell our hostages to Deep Den, Silverhill and Hornvale on our way to King's Landing."

"Would they still buy Lannister blood?" Lord Medger Cerwyn spoke, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "The lions are all but broken, their hold on the Westerlands is shattered and their reign over King's Landing made possible only by Tyrell swords."

"Aye! And even that is weak! Lord Stannis fights them over each street in the city day-to-day!" Lord Forrester called.

"Mayhaps we sell our hostages, mayhaps we have them when we reach King's Landing," Robb said. "The keeps we will pass do not have the strength to challenge us outright. Our horse will be made ready to run off any attacks on our train. And you forget, my Lords and Ladies, that we have many more prisoners than our Lannisters alone."

"Aye! Aye!" The Smalljon cheered. "The first to go must be Ser Harys Swyft!"

Supporting cries were raised from the other nobles in the room, each having had enough of the loud, outspoken man.

"If I might change the subject, Your Grace," Lord Wylis Manderly said once the voices had faded.

Robb offered him a nod.

"My Wynafryd is regrettably held up at Moat Cailin, Your Grace," the man said. "With The Mountain and his horse still at large, Marlon thought it prudent to delay her journey south."

Robb grunted, his gaze drifting to the portrait of his wife-to-be for a moment. It was faded and torn and speckled with his blood but still, she looked a queen to his eyes.

"A reasonable decision, Lord Wylis. I went south instead of ending the threat of that beast and his mounted men, I understand your family's hesitance in placing a daughter of Manderly in harm's way."

"Of course, Your Grace," Wylis said, nodding as a smile grew on his face. "Thank you for your patience."

"Tch, had you married my Alys, Your Grace, she'd be here already," Lord Rickard Karstark said, a scowl marring his face. "Karstark fears no man."

"You call my men cowardly, Lord Karstark?" The fat Manderly said, his eyes narrowed and his smile gone.

"I call them weak! Weak like the gods they worship!"

"You fiend-!"

"My Lords!" Robb yelled, his voice having had much practice at shouting down his bannermen now, nearly three years into his war. "Peace! We are all of the North!"

"Aye," Lord Karstark agreed. "Though some, more than others."

Jason Mallister shifted in his seat and the Frey man scoffed.

Wylis Manderly grew red in the face. "The Stark in Winterfell has _always_ respected our gods, Karstark!"

"Wrong as they are, southron!"

"You dare! My family is of the North! For generations we have safeguarded-"

"Yet, ye' can't even guard your own daughter! Our next Queen in the North!" Lord Karstark spat on the ground. "It's-"

"Lord Karstark," Robb said, his voice not quite a shout. Still, the two feuding nobles fell silent all the same. "You have a quarrel to bring before me?"

"Aye," the man grunted. "I lost my son to this war. My dear boy, Eddard! And you give me what in return? Four sacks of gold? Is that all he's worth?!"

"Four grain sacks filled with gold, to each noble house of the North," Robb said, nodding. "Tis the spoils each house receives."

"Mallister and Frey jump to our side just in time to hold out their hands! And what's more, Winterfell receives eight to our four!?"

Robb turned fully toward the elderly Lord of House Karstark, his eyes narrowed. "You would deny me my right as King? Am I not a just ruler? Did you not name me your King in the North, Lord Karstark?"

"Aye, aye, I did," the man allowed, faltering. He glanced toward the ground. "But my son-"

"We all lost sons and daughters in this war, Karstark," Maege Mormont said loudly, from across the room. "You've no more right to complain than the rest of us!"

"Shut your mouth, woman! I'll not hear complaints from your ilk, stuck on your blasted island as you are!"

Robb rubbed at his eyes as House Glover, whose boy Gawen was to wed Lyanna Mormont, jumped into the fray. Forrester joined the fight in defense of his Glover liegelord and Hornwood then joined the side of Karstark.

Robb snarled, drawing his blade from the scabbard at his hip. Arya sucked in a breath behind him even as he paced to the center of the room, his Lords and Ladies quietening.

Tension spread about the room quickly.

"You've a grudge to settle with the Lannisters, Lord Karstark," the King in the North said, his mouth settling into a scowl. "You'll not settle it with them, not my prisoners. You'll settle it with me instead."

The man's eyes widened. "Your Grace, I cannot-!"

"Does your son's life mean nothing to you, man! I give you a chance to avenge him! I give you a chance to raise your hand at me – the man who ordered him to his death! And who quiver-"

"I'll not draw my sword on mine own King!" The man protested, rising from his chair, his brow furrowed.

"Then you dishonor the memory of your son! Of my father, whose name he bore! You dishonor your house, Lord Karstark!"

Slowly, his limbs became colder – not numb, but simply… colder. It was an odd feeling, usually when his fingers grew cold they grew numb as well but he did not experience the latter now.

' _Almost there…'_

"I dishonor nothing! I brought my men south for you, boy! Men that died for you!"

"Like your _son_ died for me."

The man recoiled, visibly shocked, if the widening of his eyes were any judge. He recovered quickly, though, and drew his sword.

Immediately, The Smalljon, Lord Cerwyn, Wylis Manderly and Lady Mormont all rose to their feet, scowling fiercely. But Robb waved them off.

Instead, he dove into the anger he felt within him. He willed it to wash over him, he gave into the beast inside.

He thought of the outrage he felt over one of his bannermen raising his sword against him. He thought of how ungrateful the man was, after going on a successful campaign south, to feel anything but gratitude toward the Stark in Winterfell. He thought of the sight of Eddard Karstark dying, screaming as red lifeblood poured from his throat.

And he seethed.

Outside, in the courtyard, Grey Wind howled. The room grew still, eerie as the beast's voice was.

Then, a creeping cold began crawling down his arms. His hair stood on end and the world, as it were, became clear.

He could see the sweat beading on Lord Karstark's features. He could hear Arya gasping behind his desk. He could hear steel sliding free from a sheath behind him.

He moved.

Forward, he darted, his legs carrying him across the length of the room in two great strides. Lord Karstark cried out, shifting a practiced foot back and swinging his sword out in a warding, horizontal arc.

But Robb whipped his sword up and, with a cry, struck the older man's blade as it swung.

And both blades shattered into pieces.

Shouts rung out from his Lords and Ladies and the doors to the room burst open, admitting Alyn, his faithful Winterfell guard that traveled south with his father. Lord Medger Cerwyn began crossing the room behind him and Arya jumped to her feet.

But Robb did not acknowledge them. Instead, he dropped his sword even as Lord Karstark stumbled back, still grasping the hilt of his own shattered sword. The King in the North took hold of the man by his collar and, with a howl echoed by his direwolf outside, heaved the man across the room.

The entire room.

Lord Karstark flew, howling and spitting and screaming, head over heels until he hit the ground in front of Lords Bolton and Hornwood. Lord Cerwyn had to dive out of the way, lest he be hit by the man flying through the air.

Grey Wind's howl died down and, in the shocked silence of the chamber, it never sounded louder.

Then, Lord Karstark, still fumbling for his footing on the ground, some thirty feet from Robb, began laughing. It was more a howl than laughter, more a cackle than a chuckle, but the man laughed until he was curled up into a ball on the ground all the same. He laughed through Lord Cerwyn hesitantly sheathing his blade once more. Through Wylis Manderly retaking his seat and The Smalljon silently pacing over to stand behind Robb's right shoulder.

He laughed and laughed until the King in the North cleared his throat, nodding to Alyn as the Winterfell man left the room.

Lord Karstark sat up in his tunic. "I- Your Grace…" He exhaled heavily. "I've never been so man-handled. Not since I was a lad… I-"

He looked down to the shattered sword in his hand and let out another cackle, dropping the useless hilt to the ground. "Twas my father's sword, passed down to me on mine own seventeenth nameday… But who better than to break it, and my pride, than the first King in the North in centuries?"

The man paused and Robb allowed the silence to linger. Most of his Lords and Ladies were staring at him, somewhat incredulous stares on their faces. A few were more expressive, such as Lords Norrey and Forrester, but the vast majority only looked on, silent.

"Take your seat in my circle, Lord Karstark, if your grudge be finished."

The man smiled a bitter smile. "Aye. My grudge… I'll not think to challenge you again. Mayhaps I only needed a knock upside the head, like I received as a boy, to remind myself of my place."

Robb hummed as the man heaved himself to his feet, somewhat unsteady, and collected his sword's hilt off of the stone floor. Lord Cerwyn grasped the Karstark's shoulder when the latter rose in full but the elder man shrugged it off.

"Your son died bravely, Lord Karstark. I will not forget his sacrifice. The North remembers."

"…Aye, Your Grace. I…" The man's shoulders sunk. "I'll not forget it neither. I've only the Lannisters to blame…"

"Mayhaps one might frequent your dungeons," Robb responded, reclining on his desk even as his Lords and Ladies returned to their seats. "We've many a hostage to sell, many of them Lannisters… And I'm afraid we've nearly fought them out of this war entirely!"

A quiet chuckle passed throughout the room and the incredulous stares slowly died down into merely curious ones.

"You are wondering how I tossed a man Lord Karstark's size across the room," Robb acknowledged.

"Aye, Your Grace," Lady Mormont nodded. "I've not seen the like of it before, excepting your charge into the Lannister lines during the Battle of The Rock."

"Robb the Undying," the remaining Lords chanted lowly.

"Robb the Undying indeed," the King in the North said. "I owe my life to your daughter, Lady Mormont. And your brother, Wylis. Ask of me any favor within my power and I shall see it done."

"Your Grace is too kind," Wylis muttered.

"Indeed," Maege Mormont agreed. "I only hope favors of mine King remain a rare privilege."

A grin touched Robb's lips. "My Lady Mormont, do you think me some southron twit, tying ribbons 'round knight's arms?"

His Lords laughed and chortled, all but Glover, Bolton and Forrester.

"Nay, Your Grace. I spoke out of turn, I beg your-"

"You need not beg anything of me, Lady Mormont," he said, shaking his head. "A King is _nothing_ without his bannermen. You, and all your men and women, fighters and farmhands alike, will forever have my thanks."

A murmur of gratitude passed around the circle.

"But in fact, my Lady Mormont, I might ask a favor of you first," Robb said slowly, glancing back toward Arya. The young girl met his eyes with a raised brow.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"Mine sister, Maege. She is a fighter, blooded and eager… She'll not get the training she desires in Winterfell… Mayhaps you would be willing to foster her on Bear Island for what remains of her youth?"

Arya's eyes widened and her head turned toward the Lady Mormont.

The elder woman met the younger's gaze. "Aye, Your Grace. A Stark on Bear Island is an honor I'll not refuse. 'Specially not one such as young Arya."

"It shall be done, then," Robb decided, nodding, even Arya let out an excited gasp. He turned then to The Smalljon. "I hear tell the roads have gotten worse near Last Hearth, what say you?"

"Ah," the man muttered, scratching at the back of his head. "Aye, Your Grace… we've not the gold to maintain them so close to winter. Mine own great-uncles already remind me of that _incessantly_."

Robb hummed. "We've just over two hundred grain sacks of gold… Fifty are to go to Moat Cailin's reconstruction, so that my promise to the Freys might be kept and so that our borders will be made even stronger. All the better to resist an invasion from the south. The North remembers."

"The North remembers," his bannermen echoed.

"Eight and sixty are to be our spoils. Another eight split amongst the men and women of the army." He turned to shuffle through the parchment on his desk, brushing aside a letter from his mother, another from Sansa and one from Stannis Baratheon, claiming the royal children were bastards born of incest and how he controlled King's Landing. Of course, there was another letter from Joffrey _Baratheon_ , claiming just the same. Robb found he cared little for it all. "We've nearly eighty sacks of gold left, my Lords and Ladies… rarely does The North see such riches. I intend to use half that number to secure food for our winter. Most bought and paid for outright but so too do I hear tell of Braavosi farmers who know how to work poor land, such as the soil around their free-city. Braavos is always in need of wood and The North would benefit mightily from their knowledge of the land."

"I concur," The Smalljon said immediately, his holdfast being the most northernly of all Robb's bannermen.

"Aye," Lord Cerwyn muttered, nodding alongside Lord Flint and Lord Glover.

"It will ease many a mind to have sufficient food for the winter, Your Grace," Lord Bolton said, his voice quiet as ever.

"Indeed," The King in the North agreed. And, before the thought slipped his mind: "I mean to give you your choice of the Lannister women, Lord Bolton, should you desire a wife."

The man cleared his throat. "Birthing a child in the midst of winter…"

"You've no heir," Robb said.

"Tis true… yet, I've a bastard."

"A bastard I've heard no good of, Lord Bolton. I'll not legitimize him while the smallfolk whisper of rapes and murders."

Lord Karstark and Lord Hornwood grunted and nodded, their lands being the closest to that of the Bolton's.

The Lord of the Dreadfort himself hesitated, but eventually he nodded: "Very well, Your Grace. I'm afraid I must ask for more foodstuffs, the better to help the delicate infant survive the winter."

"Two more carts to the Dreadfort," Robb decided even as his Lords and Ladies began to stir. He continued before they could get a word in edgewise, food being such a… _delicate_ topic of conversation for the North. "I would put forth Alysanne Lefford, a prisoner of mine foot at the base of The Rock even now. Heiress to Golden Tooth, high-blooded and well raised."

"I shall consider her, Your Grace."

He nodded and returned his gaze to The Smalljon. "Even with the footstuffs, we've still forty of these sacks of gold. A full ten will go to restoring the roads, not just near Last Hearth, but across all the North. It may not be the most notable of things, but my roads will be of high quality."

"These old bones appreciate it, Your Grace," Wylis Manderly chortled even as Lord Cerwyn hummed.

"The better to close the distance between Winterfell and mine own keep!"

"Indeed," Robb agreed. Then: "Ten of the remaining thirty will go to building a fleet of ships for the Northern Kingdom, to be based out of White Harbor, Deepwood Motte and Seagard. A further five will be used to improve the docks and shipyards of those same keeps. The remainder will remain within Winterfell's coffers, in reserve, should they ever be needed."

"Deepwood Motte will do you proud, Your Grace," Lord Glover said loudly, a change in his normally reserved behavior.

"As will White Harbor!"

"Aye, Your Grace! The North will prosper!"

"It will indeed!" Robb said, nodding. "Now, my Lords and Ladies, I owe you an explanation, for mine actions earlier were anything but ordinary."

He stilled then and closed his eyes, the silence of his solar – punctuated by the muttering of his bannermen – faded from his mind.

' _Silence,'_ he thought.

' _Silence,'_ he urged his mind.

Slowly, worldly thoughts and feelings faded. His mind drew away from the war and its challenges. From his bannermen and their bickering and the trouble he suffered through to keep them happy. Worry and anxiety left him. Thoughts of seeing Wynafryd, of worrying they would dislike one another, left him too.

His shoulders slumped and his breathing grew quiet until the noise in the solar was muffled and dull.

Until he felt another thought enter his mind. It was not expressed in words. It did not carry happiness or sadness or worry or any human emotion to it.

Instead, it carried a wolf's curiosity.

' _Meat-food,'_ the thought came. No words and no pictures too accompany it but merely an expression of what it was. An urging. Primal and simple.

Robb nudged that urging away, replacing it with another.

' _Tower,'_ he thought in words.

But nothing answered him.

' _Tall-thing-human-smells,'_ he thought, leaving the words of his people behind and instead expressing the idea for what it was.

Understanding flitted back to him.

' _Winding-path-higher-top.'_

Slowly, he breathed in and out, flashes of color and smells and sounds jumping out at him from the presence. Nothing solid. Nothing whole. Nothing like his dream.

But thoughts that were not his own bombarded him nonetheless, a confirmation of his bond with Grey Wind.

' _Grain-smell-food-Alpha. Pointy-stick-hurt-pain. Winding-path-higher-top.'_

Each one was expressed in a way that baffled Robb but made a simple sense to him all the same.

There were no words to the wolf. Only sounds and smells and instinct.

A scream echoed from outside the solar.

"Passage-clear-" He started, shaking his head. "Open the door!"

A moment of hesitation prevented the portal from opening but, after a beat, the heavy wooden door swung open.

"Grey Wind," Robb said, smiling as he opened his eyes. The direwolf bounded in the room, his eyes intent and focused upon the King in the North. Those same eyes closed and the beast's tongue hung out of his mouth when fingers began scratching his jaw.

His Lords and Ladies were silent, each eyeing the beast in front of them. Some with apprehension. Others with no visible emotion on their face.

They were each familiar with the direwolf and had seen him in battle, but to call the animal without using any words…

"Did you… I saw no dog whistle," Lord Glover wondered.

"Aye, but the beast knows when his master calls," Maege Mormont said. "Meaning no offense, Your Grace, but at times it seems as though you are of one mind with the direwolf."

"He used no words. He said nothing. Yet, here Grey Wind stands where before he was out in the courtyard! We all saw him as we entered, My Lords!" The Smalljon uttered, his eyes wide.

A silence lingered as the man finished, uneasy and confused.

"How did you call him, Your Grace?" Lord Bolton intoned.

"Magic," Robb uttered, continuing even as many raised their voices. "Magic returns to the world, my Lords and Ladies, and with it come skinchangers. I discovered the talent during the Battle of the Rock. And I suggest each of you look upon your men to find those with the talent… Winter comes, and we'll need every advantage we can get to survive it."

Voices raised as he finished, but Robb did not answer them. His Lords and Ladies would argue amongst one another for a time, until they almost came to blows – such was the way of the North - at which point he would need to step in.

An idea came to him, then.

' _Mayhaps Grey Wind could stop the fight in my stead?'_

Nodding to himself, he shut his eyes once more. Shutting out these raised voices and becoming one with his wolf would test his skills.

But he did not mind. He needed the practice.

* * *

 _Cersei Lannister, at long last, allows an alliance to be brokered between her house and the Tyrells. Her hesitance at introducing an outside influence upon her son, the king, forced the Red Keep to endure food shortages and constant worry over an attack. Now, though, Redwyne ships arrive by sea to contest Stannis' fleet whilst sixty thousand swords of the Reach push King Baratheon back until he holds only the Great Sept of Baelor and the hill it sits upon. The assault is not without cost, for every one man that died of Stannis' twenty thousand horse, two unblooded men of the Reach are taken too. Now, the lions and the rose fight the burning stag by day and by night, over each street in King's Landing._

 _Catelyn Stark never joined south and found Tyrion, she never brought him to the Vale and met her uncle, the Blackfish. Thus, Brynden Tully remains in the Vale, his skills unavailable to Riverrun._

* * *

 **A/N:** So I legitimately thought last week was the scheduled two week posting date – I went out of town the first weekend of the year and that managed to jumble my mental calendar up in all sorts of ways. But then my buddy's PC broke down and I spent last Friday-Sunday rebuilding the thing with him (four faulty motherboards and a crap power supply is my new record for broken parts). So we're two weeks late now but I've finally, finally managed to sit down and revise this!

 **Edit:** I made a minor change to chapter four – it mentioned Robb receiving a letter from Wynafryd and I never intended him to get one of those before this chapter. That mistake has been corrected.

We're winding down in the War of the Five Kings and the plot for this story. I've got another three or four chapters for you lot before this is all wrapped up and work begins on the sequel. That story is still in its infancy, after all, and the direction it's going to take depends largely on what you guys think of this one!

 **LongClaw:** The Blackfish is actually still in the Vale here – Caitlyn never found Tyrion since she returned north early due to Bran's death and, as a result, never met her uncle. It's certainly possible he still came upon the realization he was needed elsewhere (e.g. Riverrun) without meeting Lady Stark but I chose to keep him where he is. Thanks for the review!

 **TMI Fairy:** Bran's direwolf is still in Winterfell, unfortunately we won't see much of him in this story since it's largely based in the south. That said, I do have vague plans for him in the second story, though that's still probably years off. Glad to see you're enjoying it and thanks for sharing your thoughts!

 **Melubarv:** Sansa's time in King's Landing is going to be admittedly different here. Tyrion, for all his faults, was an honorable enough man at heart and the Stark daughter's safety was only one of many benefactors. We'll see her soon enough, though, no plans of killing her off. She's too valuable a hostage as a King's sister for that.

Till next time!

-Phailen


	7. Chapter 7

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _Three months later, 299 – Robb Stark – Camp outside King's Landing, The Crownlands_

Their journey east to King's Landing was slow, in part because armies were just that but also because Robb began ransoming off lesser captives to the houses he encountered along the way. He kept Tywin Lannister, Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister in chains but of the rest of his prisoners, he sold to the highest bidder.

Some houses that bought the freedom of a noble hoped to earn the favor of House Lannister, weakened though it was. Others only bought prisoners to advance their own interests, they bought wives or wards or outright hostages off of Robb as easily as they would buy grain off of a farmer.

Once upon a time, he might've cared about who bought his prisoners, knowing he only took them from a northern cage and put them in one of the Westerlands.

But once upon a time, he was an untested boy, green as southron grass, handing a dagger to his brother.

A bluff he thought to call.

Instead, a life he helped take.

No, he could not afford to allow his sense of honor get in the way of the North's future. All of his efforts must go into preserving it through the years – and winters – to come. Nothing could be ignored where the strength and prestige of the North was concerned.

To that end, he attracted many a hedge knight as he journeyed east with his men and women, each drawn by stories of his dominant campaign through the Westerlands. So many came to him to pledge themselves that his mounted force swelled from six thousand – after The Wull returned – to nearly seven. It was a nice boon, seeing his forces grow stronger, though dealing with the upstart knights and their attempts to earn his favor was trying to the extreme.

One even tried to teach Arya to joust to catch his attention – that very same day, Robb learned that his little sister should never be allowed a lance atop a horse, lest she stick the point into the ground and launch herself from the beast's back again!

But amidst the troubles and stresses of organizing his march east, in between dealing with the selling of hostages and the logistics of moving a force of about twenty thousand with all the accompanying support trains and camp followers across the land, he found his mind relaxing.

The fortunes of the North were finally looking up.

Between what gold The Wull brought back and what he received for his hostages, an additional thirty grain sacks were added to The North's spoils. Fifteen would return to Winterfell's vaults, the rest divided up among his fifteen bannermen.

Euron Greyjoy, having been named King of the Iron Islands by their kingsmoot, took his boats to pillage the bountiful Reach instead of the North. Stannis and Joffrey fought over King's Landing and weakened each other day-by-day. Dorne remained as neutral as they could and, since they were the only remaining kingdom in the seven that had uncommitted military might, the North could finally, at long last, relax.

Not entirely. Not completely. An ever wary eye would need to be pointed to the south… but now that their borders were relatively safe and without an immediate enemy at their doorstep, Robb's people might finally know peace once more.

A King's peace. _His_ peace. Peace brought to them by the King in the North.

And now, the very same King stood within eyesight of King's Landing.

One last objective. One more sister to save.

Then, he was homeward bound.

Aegon the Conquerer's city burned before Robb's eyes, its walls stretching out across the horizon with countless pillars of smoke drifting up from its homes and buildings. They clawed at the sky with blackened, thin fingers. And in that sky gathered dark clouds of black ash, hovering low over King's Landing and the plains that stood between his army and its walls.

It was a depressing sight. Dreary and dark. Even with Tyrell swords, now numbering forty thousand last he heard, the Lannisters could not dislodge Stannis Baratheon from their city. With every day that passed, Robb had no doubt more buildings were put to the torch and more smallfolk were made to run, homeless, from the fighting.

Even now, a train of peasants fled the city's many gates. They brought a great many tales to Robb's ears. Stories of Stannis' attack and subsequent breeching of the River Gate. Of how his men fought their way to the Red Keep, all the way up to the gates and bridges, thereby containing the Lannisters within the very walls they fought so hard to claim.

Then, Redwyne ships came with men of the Reach aboard their decks. The peasants spoke of how Tyrell swords spilled into the city and broke the siege on the Red Keep while Redwyne and Baratheon ships fought in the waters just off the coasts. They cried and wailed about families lost in the chaos. They shouted and yelled about which king was in the right.

They remained as divided as the conflict that raged within the city.

But in one matter, each man and woman agreed: Stannis Baratheon claimed the Great Sept of Baelor as his stronghold while Joffrey Baratheon – Lannister, to some and Waters, to others – did the same of the Red Keep, having taken Margaery Tyrell as his queen.

And so the situation had remained for months, the Tyrell reinforcements arrived just before Robb left Casterly Rock to march east. Neither side gained an upper hand in the time it took him to reach the city and in the constant fighting between the forces of two kings, the smallfolk were made the true losers.

They lost homes and businesses, food and water, valuables and crafting tools alike. The armies took what they needed from them to supply their wars, caring not one whit about the people. Not when the Iron Throne was so close.

It was no wonder most were angered when they spoke to Robb's Lords and Ladies, the men and women he instructed to gather information on the conflict.

Now, those angry peasants made camp beside his army. Some of them, at least. He had his men make camp behind an outcropping of trees that hid them somewhat from the road. Not fully, though, so upon the bark of the trees, he ordered the scowling, twisted faces of the old gods carved. What peasants saw his army _and_ braved the old gods were allowed to eat with his men. Those that rejected his gods in favor of the Seven walked on. It also proved an effective deterrent for the more zealous peasants of the Seven, of which there were a surprising amount.

Now, Robb stood in front of that very same collection of trees, watching the train of men and women and children slow as the sun set over the red city.

"Your Grace," Alyn's voice said behind him. "You've a visitor… another Tyrell."

"Have they brought my sister?"

"Nay."

"Then I'll not see another one of those buffoons." They came to him almost daily, sometimes begging him to help, other times demanding his aid for the 'rightful king'.

' _Rightful king my arse. That bastard boy killed my father. He'll never be my king.'_

"I… He calls himself Loras Tyrell, Your Grace."

Robb stirred and turned, pushing thoughts of the conflict within the city from his mind. "The Knight of Flowers?" He asked, arching an eyebrow. "Does he look the part?"

"Ah, he is young, Your Grace, as young as the Knight of Flowers is said to be… I cannot speak to his appearance, though."

The King in the North chuckled. "Nay, I'd not ask you to judge him comely. Show me to him, then."

"Aye, Your Grace," the man said, a sigh escaping him. The guard turned and led Robb through the faces of the old gods. The ten Stark swords he had with him fell into step behind them, until the sounds of men laughing and shouting reached their ears. Accompanying them were the sounds of fires crackling and horses neighing.

The noise was followed by the sight of nearly twenty thousand men and women of the north camped in a grove surrounded on all sides but one by trees. Fires and tents passed by him on both sides, the deer and hogs of the Crownlands roasting for his men to eat. Wagons and carts were present too, most empty and lining the camp as a makeshift wall until they would be utilized in the march north.

"King! King in the North!" A man wearing Forrester colors yelled. The call was picked up by his companions - Stark colors, Umber and Glover too - around the fire and, soon, hundreds of men called his praise.

He acknowledged them – still pacing forward - with a raised hand and wished them a full meal and an enjoyable night.

After all, of the many peasants that attached themselves to his army, many were whores. His men were content to rest on their laurels largely because of that.

And he understood – Robb took a whore to bed four separate times on their march east. The comfort they provided, temporary and fleeting though it might be, was a balm to his war-weary mind.

Moon tea followed in the morning, of course. A bastard was the very last way he wanted to begin his reign.

A reign strengthened by those fleeing the conflict in King's Landing, no less.

Some of the peasants - be they prostitutes or traders or smiths - would travel north with his army too, he knew. He did not mind. In fact, he approved of them, the camp followers. The better to bolster the population of the north for the coming winter. Other peasants would likely only remain until the conflict in King's Landing was solved; their entire lives were probably spent within its walls and leaving that life for the unknown was doubtlessly very difficult.

"Your Grace," Alyn intoned. "Lords Bolton and Mallister placed the boy and his companion within."

Robb returned to his senses as the man finished, turning away from his army to face the tent the man indicated.

It was an unexceptional tent, one that would be given to a second or a third son. Smaller than the like in which his Lords and Ladies slept and certainly smaller than his command tent.

His own was only slightly larger, though. He never did enjoy too much excess space and that space only made it easier for his enemies to find him. His tent, an unremarkable thing but for the guard presence around it, sat amidst his army. This one was near the edge of the clearing.

"Are any with them now?"

"Lords Mallister and Karstark, Your Grace, along with their guards."

"Thank you, Alyn," Robb responded, starting toward the flaps of the tent. He stopped short of entering though, instead turning back to the Winterfell man. "I'll see you rewarded for your loyalty to myself and my father, Alyn. If you've no house within the walls of my keep, you will have one, after this war is done."

The guard's eyes widened, as the King in the North expected. He knew the man lived in Winter Town, just outside the walls of Winterfell. A home within those very walls was hard to come by, given how little space the North had for its smallfolk when winter swept over its lands.

"You're too kind, Your Grace! I've no family name nor family of my own… I… If I may be so bold, I would see my sister and hers' housed within Winterfell before me."

"All of you," Robb decided. "How many does your sister's family number?"

"Four," the man said, his words coming upon a slow exhalation. It was half a gasp, half a sigh.

"Then the five of you will warm your hands within a house inside my walls."

"I… Thank you, King Robb, truly!"

"You deserve it, Alyn," he said, turning half toward the tent. When Alyn – shocked as he was – did not recognize the dismissal, he continued: "Mayhaps you should let your sister know the good news."

"Oh! Right! Of course… she'll be so relieved! Her husband is a baker so winter always stresses their family and- Right. I'll go, Your Grace. Many thanks!"

The man ran off and Robb wasted no time in entering the tent fully, his amused smile fading from his lips as he did so.

"-can't do that!" A voice was saying, loudly and adamantly. "You've no right! No right, ser!"

"I'm no _ser,_ boy," Rickard Karstark spat, a scowl on his face. "And I've every right in Westeros. You come before us begging and expect your every whim to be met?" The man spat on the ground. "There's what I think of your _rights_."

Robb slipped in silently in the midst of the argument, the lack of armor on his person allowing him to remain undetected in the darkened interior of the tent. Against the raised voices of Karstark and the boy – whom Robb guessed was Loras Tyrell, for he wore a cape of flowers under his travel cloak – he could have stomped in and gone unheard. The pair stood in the middle of the tent with a table between them, a plate of bread and cheese untouched on its surface. Lord Mallister stood beside Karstark and four men of the north stood behind the Lords. Just behind Loras Tyrell, a small, hooded figure in a cloak hovered, silent. Two torches lit the tent but there were plenty of shadows in the corners left for Robb to remain and observe undetected.

"We're highborn and of good blood! Does that mean nothing to you?!"

"Means you'll sell for more," Karstark cackled even as Jason Mallister rubbed at his eyes. "Got a goodly amount of gold from the Westerlands selling prisoners already! Seven more grain sacks even! We've no qualms at selling you off too."

"Northern savages-"

"Please, good sers," Loras' companion said, a feminine voice emanating from within the long hood of her cloak.

"I am no ser, girl!"

"My apologies, I am unused to the customs of the North, though I would so enjoy learning of them," the soft voice said, the head underneath the cloak dipping minutely. "I-"

"The North is not for the soft-skinned, My Lady," Lord Mallister said, his calm voice a stark contrast to Karstark's loud, angry one. "Even mine own house remains chilled throughout the whole of winter, and Seagard is the most southernly castle of King Stark's banners."

"Just so, I think I would find it refreshing," she said, pulling back her hood. Long, brown tresses fell upon her shoulders and dark, doe eyes pinned Jason Mallister under their stare. "The air in King's Landing can be so… stagnant."

Robb could not place her face but she looked a twin of Loras' as she stood next to him. He knew the Tyrells had three sons and a daughter... the woman could only be Lady Margaery Tyrell.

' _Though I suppose that is Baratheon, now… Unless Joffrey Waters takes a different name.'_

Jason Mallister lost his speech, staring so intently at Margaery as he was, but Lord Karstark did not suffer the same ailment.

"My Alys could outlast you three times over, girl, you'll not survive one-"

"Will you throw nothing but insults at us, savage?!" Loras Tyrell demanded when his sister's eyes drifted down to the ground.

' _He defends her rigorously. I wonder if Joffrey's violent streak brought that on?'_

Lord Rickard Karstark placed his hand on the guard of his sword. His guards, behind him, did the same. "You are in no position to question _me_ , boy!"

The Knight of Flowers eyes widened ever so slightly even as his eyes darted down to the bread and cheese on the table, still untouched.

Margaery Tyrell, evidently recovered from Lord Karstark's insults, placed a hand on her brother's arm. As she made to speak, Robb caught sight of a bruise on her forearm.

"Please forgive-"

"That food is not yours' to have, boy!" Karstark continued, glaring at the Knight of Flowers. "Nor is your guest right ours' to give!"

"You would deny us even that? Will your men kill us where we stand? A lone knight, unarmed, and a woman? What-"

"A lone knight sworn to the lion and a woman who beds their king," Lord Mallister intoned. "You've no friends in this camp, Ser Tyrell. Lady Margaery."

"We've no friends anywhere, it seems," the woman said, her eyes downcast. Her arms returned to the folds of her cloak and the bruise he saw disappeared behind the cloth as well. "Mine own father even, blinded by his greed as he is. He sees nothing of the Lannisters' faults, only the throne they claim as their own."

"Mace Tyrell is a fool," Lord Karstark said, a sneer on his lips now. "Next to King Robb Stark, the man is scarcely fit to rule over a farm."

"I've heard a great many terrifying things of your Stark in Winterfell," Margaery said quickly, ignoring the stir she caused by the wording of her statement. "That he is a man turned beast, invincible in combat and undefeated by all foes."

Lord Mallister chuckled lowly even as the tension in the tent began to dissolve.

Robb found that disappointing. He had hoped to learn more of his prisoners before rash words disappeared from the conversation entirely.

"Nothing quite so grand, My Lady," the Lord of Seagard said. "He and his direwolf are a fierce sight in battle and they slew sixteen Lannister men at arms, cleaving a leg from Jaime Lannister too, in just so many seconds. But no man is beyond death."

"He sounds a fierce warrior, My Lords," the woman said, laughing behind her hand. "Forgive me for thinking it but I know so little of war, mayhaps he and Loras could share stories?"

Lord Karstark let loose a surprised bark of laughter. "This green boy is nothing against the King in the North, girl!"

Loras' shoulders tensed but Margaery's hand on his arm stilled him.

Robb frowned, focusing for but a moment before he touched Grey Wind's consciousness.

' _Alpha-scent-go-aid-safe.'_

He felt the direwolf stir where he lay in the midst of the forests surrounding his army and turned his attentions back to conversation at hand.

Lady Margaery opened her mouth to speak-

"I thank you for the praise, Lord Karstark," Robb said easily, approaching the table – and the torchlight – from the shadows of the tent. Loras and Margaery looked his way, both wide eyed, while the Lords Mallister and Karstark and their guards only jumped minutely in surprise.

He adjusted the iron-and-bronze crown atop his head, watching as two sets of Tyrell eyes followed his fingers' movement.

"But I am nothing without my men. My banners. You and Lord Mallister, alongside your peers, made our campaign possible."

"Your Grace," Karstark nodded even as Mallister demurred: "Your Grace is too kind."

Robb reached the table, placing his hands upon the surface even as his grey cloak settled from the lack of movement.

"Who comes before me?"

"My Lord, I-"

Margaery elbowed the boy in the ribs, eliciting laughter instead of outrage from his Lords even as Loras' face reddened.

"Y-Your Grace," the boy continued, his teeth grinding together. "I am Ser Loras Tyrell of Highgarden. A knight formerly of Joffrey… Waters' Kingsguard at the behest of mine father only, Lord Mace Tyrell. My Lady sister, Margaery Tyrell and Queen of the Se- and…"

He faltered.

"I was forced into marrying the boy, Your Grace," the woman said – though now that he was close to her, Robb realized she could not be any older than he. "He is not fit to rule, not like you-"

He held up his hand and she fell quiet. "I do not need your praise, My Lady. I only need to know what it is you want of me."

Margaery's mouth moved, soundless, for a moment. Then, she released a soft laugh behind her hand. "I… Forgive me, Your Grace. I am not used to such… pragmatism."

"You lived in King's Landing, My Lady. Of course you aren't."

Another laugh, though this one a little more strained, left the girl's throat. "Indeed. I, ah… We, that is, wish only for safe harbor from the crown, Your Grace."

"From which crown?" He asked as he heard the flaps of the tent shift in the face of a great weight. The animalistic breath that entered the tent then told him Grey Wind had arrived.

Margaery's mouth moved without sound again and her eyes rounded as she focused on the direwolf over his shoulder. Her hand went to her mouth. "Oh my…"

Loras fared little better, pushing his sister behind him as he was. His free hand went to his waist where, presumably, his blade would have been, had he not been disarmed.

Grey Wind came to a stop at Robb's side – Lord Mallister shuffled over to make room – and the King in the North scratched at the direwolf's ears. The beast leaned into the touch but kept half an eye on the Tyrells still.

"Which crown, Lady Margaery?"

"I…" The girl blinked. "I am sorry, Your Grace… I do not remember- What was the question you posed to me?"

"From which crown do you run?"

"Oh," she gasped. "From Joffrey Waters. And from Stannis Baratheon."

"And that of Euron Greyjoy? That of mine own crown?"

"We… the Greyjoys are not here at present and, Your Grace, we have no quarrel with the Starks."

"And yet," Robb intoned. "You do not know if we share that sentiment."

Silence fell over the tent then, thick and cloying. Lord Karstark scoffed.

"I hope we've not caused you any offense, Your Grace," Margaery said, slowly stepping out from behind her brother. The girl's eyes struggled to stay on him, darting over at Grey Wind as they were. She bowed her head. "If we have-"

"You've not," Robb said. "Though you must be desperate indeed, if you ventured into my camp without knowing so."

"You are… quite shrewd, Your Grace, to notice. We are indeed quite desperate."

"Margaery," Loras hissed.

"No, brother," the girl said back, louder. "I'll not be told what to do any longer. I'll not follow orders any longer. And I'll not let the whims of any man control me any longer!"

When Margaery finished, she was yelling, red in the face and glaring at Loras with a hatred Robb saw many a Lannister direct at him. The Knight of Flowers, for his part, appeared too shocked to respond.

The King in the North laughed, loudly and freely. Grey Wind huffed next to him.

"And you say you saw none of the strength of the North in her, Lord Rickard," he said as the Tyrells' attention returned to him.

The older man scoffed, crossing his arms. "She's too thin still, she'll need meat on her bones and more muscle on her to survive."

"Traits about her that can be changed," Robb intoned, nodding. "The spirit is harder to alter."

"Just so, Your Grace."

The King in the North grunted and, with a hand, slid the plate of bread and cheese across the table. "Eat. Enjoy my guest right. You'll find the North is hospitable to those that can aid it."

Loras, already going for the food, paused. Margaery returned her stare to his, only once glancing at Grey Wind.

"And you _can_ help me retrieve my sister, can you not?"

* * *

 _Two days later, 299 – Robb Stark – Camp outside King's Landing, The Crownlands_

Robb Stark, First of His Name and King of the North, sat behind his desk with his fingers bridged before his eyes. His shoulders were hunched and his crown weighed heavy where it sat atop his head. His grey cloak lay across the back of his chair – the better to survive the warm, southron air – and parchments of all shapes and sizes, each with a different writer's hand, lay scattered about his desk.

The vast majority were notes on small council meetings and castle affairs – daily knowledge on what went on in the Red Keep. There was too much to read in one sitting. In _five_ sittings, even, expansive as the notes were. Unfortunately, what the papers possessed in quantity, they lacked in quality.

He did not need to know of riots in the slums of King's Landing or how much gold was spent on King Robert's last hunt. He did not need to know who was late on their taxes nor the status of armor requisitions for the city watch before the war began.

Loras and Margaery Tyrell brought them to him as a peace offering of sorts.

Robb wished they had brought his sister, instead.

' _I'll give them to Luwin once we return to Winterfell. Mayhaps something of use will turn up after all,'_ he decided, shoving the parchments back into the rough sack the Tyrells had used to smuggle them out.

The tent's flaps shuddered and slapped noisily against one another just then, reminding him that those very same Tyrells had just left his tent while he was lost in his thoughts, having given him all they knew of what went on in King's Landing in their own words.

And the situation within those blasted walls was far, far worse than Robb knew.

The forces of the Bastard king and the Baratheon king still warred by day and night. Buildings burned. People died. Scavengers ran rampant up and down every road between the Great Sept of Baelor and the Red Keep's imposing battlements.

This he knew from the peasants. Each one told a different story, each made an appeal to his mercy, crying and sobbing about how they were robbed of everything they owned by lion men, stag men and even the Faith Militant.

The Faith Militant.

His lips twisted into a scowl.

Empowering the fanatical masses never ended well, not when they thought themselves strong enough to challenge a king.

The way Margaery told it, Stannis brought his red woman – a priestess of R'hllor – into King's Landing. She immediately began converting peasantry to her god of fire, preaching to them on the very steps of Baelor's sept. Some were swayed by her words. Others were not.

Still more grew angry enough at the blasphemy to form militias.

And so, the Faith Militant was born once more, their leader: a man calling himself the High Sparrow, once the last High Septon had been burned atop a pyre by the red woman.

And Cersei Lannister apparently thought it all a great jape at Stannis' expense. That she did not have the foresight to see the problems the Faith Militant would put before her if the red woman was done away with boggled Robb's mind. Glimpsing the future based upon the present was a skill that every leader _must_ possess, lest they bumble their way into an early death.

But then, the King in the North was starting to realize that it was Tywin Lannister and Kevan Lannister who played the shrewd leaders for the house of the lions. Given the men were currently his prisoners, he was seeing Cersei Lannister lead the realm on her own for the first time.

And it was not promising.

Even _Tyrion_ Lannister would have done better.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, focusing his mind once more.

Margaery and Loras also told him all they knew of the goings on within the Red Keep.

Joffrey Waters nearly fell victim to poison no less than four times since he took the Iron Throne. After the first occurrence killed one of his food testers, Cersei began pulling peasants off the streets with promises of riches and food aplenty, only to feed them vile food meant for her equally vile son.

To make matters worse, she dismissed the Kingsguard she did not favor and installed her own within their ranks. Her son let her do it too, busy as he was chasing cats down with his crossbow.

Barristan Selmy was rumored to have found that Targaryen girl across the narrow seas, now.

But that was not all… Ladies in waiting were let go. Cooks were thrown out. Cupbearers and household guards were replaced too.

The Red Keep was a thing of chaos while Cersei Lannister filled it with the ranks of those who would only pay lip service to her – both literally and figuratively, were Margaery to be believed – and by the time Stannis' ships attacked King's Landing, the keep was filled entirely by people loyal only to the Queen.

Meanwhile, on the streets of the city, the smallfolk went hungry as a famine set in.

Riots were first a weekly occurrence, then daily, until more than one occurred every day of the week. The Gold Cloaks were left to deal with it while the gates of the Red Keep remained closed to all but those already inside, such was the Queen's paranoia given her father and uncle remained in Northern cages. Her children were kept close to her, all three, and her hostages were kept in the Tower of the Hand.

It was this city that Stannis found when he invaded. A broken, chaotic, starving city.

But at least there was no Faith Militant yet. Not at that point.

Stannis' attack hit the city swiftly and effectively. Within three days he took the whole of King's Landing but for the Red Keep itself. And so it remained, for nearly three entire weeks.

In that time, food grew scarce in the Red Keep, or so Margaery and Loras gleaned from its denizens. Joffrey Waters demanded no less than his normal share of food and his mother obliged him, starving the rest of the keep in the process. Only her guards and her family were well fed.

Not even his own sister was kept in good health, the Tyrells told him. She was stick thin when last they saw her, forced to write letters to him whenever Queen Cersei received news – rare though it was after the Red Keep was sieged – about Robb's exploits in the Westerlands. Apparently the servants even told tales of how the Queen beat his sister after he took Casterly Rock.

His own sister, made to suffer at the hands of a rash, illogical, half-crazed _cunt_ of a woman.

The thought made his jaw rigid and his teeth grind together still.

But, just when all hope was lost for the lions, the Tyrells and their banners arrived at King's Landing. Redwyne ships broke the siege at sea whilst Mace Tyrell and Randyll Tarly pushed Stannis back from the Red Keep, until he was forced to concede most of the city and make his base in the Great Sept of Baelor.

Food once more entered the Red Keep and that placated Cersei Lannister for a time. Joffrey too, even, grew more relaxed for a short while. The stress of being put under siege and made to suffer through a shortage of food – _'Even though they still ate like bloody kings as their loyal men and women starved.'_ – was lifted from them.

It was to a sweet Queen Lannister that Margaery was introduced. And an equally sweet, gallant Joffrey _Baratheon_.

Robb scoffed aloud, his fists clenching.

The boy would get his right after his whore of a brother-fucking mother.

' _Kin-slaying too,'_ his mind reminded him, calling upon memories of the letter Tyrion received directing him to stay behind and siege Riverrun, written by Cersei's own hand but made to look like it was from her father.

Loras was inducted into the Kingsguard. Mace Tyrell was made Hand of the King. And Margaery and Joffrey were married.

Their happiness together only lasted a few short days, for once the boy saw Margaery speaking with Sansa – "She was so bright amidst the darkness, Your Grace. A true font of hope!" – his ire returned. He told his mother and suddenly, the Tyrell Queen found herself at odds with her Lannister family.

Loras was assigned guard duty in the Tower of the Hand, away from his sister. Joffrey began to drink more heavily at dinner and, when Stannis' forces refused to be dislodged from the city, he took his rage out on his new wife. If Margaery were not available – for she began searching for the fabled hidden passageways of the Red Keep once her husband turned violent – then the boy would go to Sansa.

And, given that they were surrounded by Lannisters and Queen's men at every turn, they found it impossible to defend themselves. Mace Tyrell would not hear a single untoward word about the Lannisters neither, so pleased his daughter was a queen.

For three weeks, they endured, Loras told him. For three weeks they suffered together, though Margaery most of all, until the young Tyrell queen found a passageway that led out into King's Landing itself. Not far from the Red Keep but close enough to the Iron Gate along the shore that they took their chances and ran.

Half a day's walk later put them at Robb's camp.

And now, here he was, enraged but unwilling to throw his men into the mess of King's Landing. That was a fool's plan, given how much of a chaotic melee the entire city had become. Not to mention, ten thousand Tyrell men camped outside of the King's Gate and another ten outside the Gate of the Gods. If he were to mobilize his men, they would surely meet him in battle.

Duty to his people and loyalty to his family waged a battle of their own in his mind.

And suddenly, he understood how his mother felt when he refused the Riverlands.

"Fuck."

"Your Grace," Theon's voice said, just outside the flaps of his tent. "I've news of your men."

"Enter, then."

The Greyjoy ward did so, his bow on his back, stopping just before Robb's desk.

"The hunt goes well, Your Grace, the men sup on game from the Crownlands and our own food stores remain nearly full."

The King in the North nodded, pleased to hear good news, no matter how small. "I've told you before, Theon, call me by my name when we're alone."

The older boy shook his head. "My family forsook me to attack the North and so I forsook my family to follow you, Your Grace. I'll keep to your title to remind myself of that every day."

"Very well," Robb sighed, resigned and more hurt than he wanted to admit at the loss of familiarity. "Is there anything more?"

"Aye – I've watched Loras and Margaery Tyrell. The boy keeps to himself, training with the sword and sparring with the occasional idiot who thinks himself a match for the flower. He is young, Your Grace, but skilled with the blade. Lady Margaery spends her time among the men in the army, bringing food and water as they need it – she is becoming well-loved among the men."

His eyes narrowed. In the corner of the tent, Grey Wind stirred.

"To what end?"

"Methinks she means to make herself liked enough to be protected from your wrath, Your Grace. Still, the men respect you more than she. I witnessed her call to question your decision to reject the Riverlands and the men she sat with defended you to the last, noble blood be damned. She was quiet for a time, after that happened."

A minute smile touched his lips but he rubbed at his eyes all the same, his frustration over the situation in King's Landing only compounded by the girl's attempts to subvert his men.

"Mayhaps I'll find a position for her away from my court, then," he muttered. "She is to be a ward of the North but…" He shook his head. Matters for another time. A marriage to one of his banners might work, a second or a third son at most, but he could think on that after he rescued Sansa.

"Your Grace… You could sell her for Sansa."

"I cannot, Theon, though I appreciate the thought all the same. The Tyrells do not control the Red Keep, that remains in Lannister hands and it appears Mace Tyrell is too dull-witted to do anything about it. He has some forty thousand swords in the city, enough force to easily take the throne for himself and install whomever he wished upon that damned iron seat… But he hasn't realized it. Or, if he has, then he's come up with some excuse or another to stay his hand. And if his children could not convince him to act against the Lannisters – as weak as they currently are – then what can I do?"

"Right," Theon murmured. "I hadn't thought… nevermind. I-"

"Your Grace," another voice sounded from outside his tent. A guard's head appeared in the gap between the cloth.

' _Karl, I think.'_

"Yes?"

"You've a visitor… he calls himself Stannis' Hand."

Robb blinked. "Another visitor, this time from the enemy camp? Do you recognize his heraldry, Karl?"

The guard hesitated, his eyes widening. "I-ah… I do not, Your Grace. Many pardons…"

The King in the North shook his head. "Never mind that, then. Is he alone? Armed?"

"He has one other with him. We've taken his sword."

"Very well," Robb decided. At this point, he was willing to do nearly anything to find a way into the city, even try and traverse those blasted passageways himself. Of course, that would require either Loras or Margaery Tyrell to guide him and that… that was an idea he did not like. Not at all.

He was not ready to place his trust in either of the southron flowers.

"Show him in. The guard too."

Karl nodded and removed himself from the tent. A few moments later, the cloth parted again to allow an elderly man entrance, alongside a young girl.

A girl who bore scars across one side of her face.

"Shireen Baratheon," Robb muttered, his eyes narrowed. He could not quite stop his mouth from dropping open. Such was his surprise that the entrance of Lords Umber, Mormont, Bolton and four Winterfell guardsmen barely registered to him.

Of all the people he expected to see, the daughter of a man who claimed the Iron Throne was _not_ one of them.

"Your Grace," the older man said slowly in the silence that hung over the tent. He stepped forward and came to a stop in front of the desk, his hands placed calmly behind his back. Shireen, for her part, stepped up next to him. The girl kept her eyes on the ground.

"This…" Robb started, pausing to time for both his mind to begin working again and his Lords and Ladies to come to stand on his side of the desk. Theon too stood behind him once Maege Mormont, The Smalljon and Roose Bolton did the same. "This is unexpected, surely. I know Shireen Baratheon, but I do not know your name or your heraldry, ser."

"My name is Ser Davos Seaworth, Your Grace. I act as Hand to King Stannis Baratheon, rightful lord of the Six Kingdoms."

"Indeed," Robb said slowly as Lady Mormont scoffed. "You call me 'Your Grace' and refer to your King as ruler of only six kingdoms. I welcome the gesture but all the same, I cannot help but wonder why you recognize me as King in the North."

Lord Seaworth hesitated, licking his lips and swallowing visibly. At his side, Shireen Baratheon chanced a glance up at Robb, only to drop her gaze to the ground again when he met her eyes.

"Your Grace, I come seeking an agreement on behalf of King Stannis Baratheon, First of His Name and Ruler of the Six Kingdoms of Westeros. He wishes to offer you an alliance and…" the man paused, rubbing at his eyes. "And I have been granted leave to negotiate terms, if you wish it."

Lady Mormont and The Smalljon – Lord Umber, now – stirred behind him, grunting and mumbling words under their breath to quiet for Robb to hear. Even Lord Roose Bolton shifted from foot to foot.

"I will hear these terms, if nothing else," Robb answered.

Lord Davos Seaworth nodded. "Very well, Your Grace. King Stannis asks for your aid in escaping King's Landing and your recognition of his claim to the Iron Throne."

' _He always had that recognition,'_ Robb thought as he mulled over the elder man's words.

"These terms are certainly within my power to grant," The King in the North said slowly, scratching at his chin. A stray thought caused Grey Wind to rise from his pelts in the corner of the tent and pace over to him.

Shireen Baratheon gasped and immediately huddled away behind Lord Seaworth, her eyes wide and her jaw quivering. The man himself, for his part, only chanced a single glance at the direwolf before returning his gaze to Robb.

The King in the North grunted. "It's a rare man that can see Grey Wind and keep his wits about him," he muttered, scratching the direwolf under his jaw. The beast's shoulder stood just above Robb's own, now fully grown as he was.

Lord Davos did not answer, instead placing his hand upon Shireen's shoulder to bring the girl out from behind him. She shuffled into Robb's sight again, though her entire form was shaking.

He watched the girl for a moment longer – she did not take her eyes of Grey Wind even once – and then looked back to Davos Seaworth and his odd heraldry.

' _The Onion Knight,'_ his mind realized, belatedly. Vague tales of the man who smuggled food to Storm's End during Robert's Rebellion at the edges of his thoughts.

"And what does King Stannis offer the North, in return?"

"His Grace, King Stannis, offers recognition of the North and its Riverland holdings a sovereign kingdom, not bound to the Iron Throne. He offers his… his daughter, Shireen Baratheon, as a ward of Winterfell and, lastly, he offers Princess Sansa Stark."

"He has Sansa?" Robb asked quickly.

"He has found a willing accomplice within the Red Keep, Your Grace. The man promises that he can escape with Princess Sansa."

The King in the North hummed. "Convenient. Who is this man?"

"The… bastard king's hound, Your Grace. Sandor Clegane."

His mind returned to King Robert's visit north so many months and years ago. When the entire royal family had come to enjoy Winterfell's hospitality. He remembered a boy, of blond hair and arrogant gait, followed around constantly by a man with a half burnt face. A man that Joffrey constantly referred to as his dog.

"Any man that wishes to leave Joffrey Waters' service cannot be entirely foul," Robb muttered, his gaze unfocused as he dove into his memories. Chuckling from behind him drew him from his thoughts. "Lord Seaworth, you bring before me an intriguing offer. I will discuss it with my Lords and Ladies and confer with you after. Until then – Karl!"

The man appeared at the entrance of the tent once more. "Aye, Your Grace?"

"See to it that Lord Seaworth and Princess Shireen receive a Lord's tent for the night. As well as a meal of bread, cheese and salted meats."

Then, to the older man in front of him. "You have my guest right, Lord Seaworth. I will confer with you on the morrow."

The man nodded. "Your Grace. I have one last… matter to discuss with you. The King keeps a red woman with him at all times. She has provided a means of communication between King Stannis and myself… should you have any word to pass along to him, I can make certain he will hear it."

Robb's eyes narrowed. "Ravens? They'll be shot down."

"Nay, King Stark. The red woman… she has sorcery and magicks the likes of which I've not seen before. I mistrust it, truth be told, for the sacrifice to use it is oft too high."

"What sacrifice? Something taken from you?"

"No," the man said, scowling as he shook his head. "More oft than not, her magic requires a sacrifice of life."

"A foul magic it is, if it requires a man to give up his life to use it."

"Aye, Your Grace," Lord Davos said, closing his eyes. "King Stannis mislikes it too, but sees its worth. He only allows its use if the life sacrificed was one that deserved it. A murderer caught in King's Landing was used to… _fuel_ the means of communication."

"Blood magic," Robb muttered under his breath, staring down at his hands. They felt dirty simply by association – he too, could use a form of magic, after all. Did his bond with Grey Wind take a sacrifice? Was he damning lives every time he used it?

He closed his eyes and shook his head, well aware of just how silent his Lords and Ladies were behind him.

Uncomfortable thoughts. Especially so soon after his bannermen accepted his skin changing abilities.

"I will keep that in mind, Lord Davos. Now, I'm afraid I must take my leave."

"Of course, Your Grace," the man said, bowing. He placed his hand on Princess Shireen's shoulder once more – startling the girl enough that she jumped – and steered her out of the tent after Karl.

Robb waited until they were gone, then: "Theon. Gather the bannermen, Arya too. Then join us in the command tent… We have a battle to plan."

* * *

 _Without Mrycella as their hostage, Dorne stays well out of the war entirely. No plot is hatched to marry the daughter of the lion to the son of the sun and inherit the throne by Dorne's laws. Instead, they remain quiet while the realm bleeds._

* * *

 **A/N:** Woooooooooo, one more to go then we're onto the epilogue. Nearing the end of this journey has me a little introspective, mainly revolving around the way I wrote this story.

I completed the entire thing before I posted the first chapter, because I didn't want to slap another 'abandoned' tag on one of my stories' summaries. And I accomplished that, this story will be done in another month or so, but it felt far too impersonal to me.

I realize I enjoy writing as I hear/read your feedback. I like the back and forth, the ability to change a story on the fly without having to worry about later chapters that would need changing as a result. I think I'll go back to writing like that, from now on, even if it means running the risk of losing interest and never finishing the story.

Anywho, thank you all for sharing your thoughts with me. I still enjoy reading reviews even if I'm not actively writing (beyond proofreading and a little editing) while I'm doing it. To that end…

 **TMI Fairy:** Yeah, no inheriting Golden Tooth – I have some minor plans for that castle anyway, so it never would've ended up in Bolton hands. The marriage is more one of convenience than anything. The Dreadfort needs an heir and Robb isn't going to legitimize Ramsey. Thanks for your review!

 **Jean d'arc:** I'm glad you like the story and, even further, that you have misgivings about Robb. He's a different beast entirely than he was in the books and the skills/traits he's picked up aren't all positive. They may help The North as a whole but, as you pointed out, his family suffers for it. The burdens of being a good king? Or maybe just a boy too fixated on his regret? Thanks for sharing your thoughts!

 **LongClaw:** I never had Clegane sack the Riverlands _before_ that first battle between Robb and Tywin. He was with the army the entire time due solely to the fact that – as you said – Tyrion was never taken hostage. I had enough foresight to see that, though again, Tyrion having his mountain men was a misstep. And of course, once Tywin heard Robb was heading for the Riverrun, Clegane was sent ahead with the horse. And after Riverrun, the man was left to his own devices and so the pillaging and plundering and raping began. I _think_ I've covered all my bases, but the world of ASoIaF is just so massive that I feel like I'll always miss something. Thanks for your thoughts!

 **Guest:** Yeah, pretty much everything you said! Robb did a lot of growing up, very early on and that rubbed plenty of people the wrong way. The Riverlands and his mother most of all. Their interactions will be as interesting for me to write as they are for you to read, I imagine! Thanks for your review.

 **Melubarv:** I think I may just go with the whole Catelyn-leaves-the-Vale-when-she-hears-of-Bran angle. That'd give Tyrion a chance to still have his mountain men/Bronn and force Catelyn to give up her case on him to return north. I also think the war would have started even without Tyrion's arrest – Eddard Stark's death alongside Robert Baratheon's had The North/The Stormlands/The Reach rearing to go! Nymeria is a topic I have not decided upon just yet and Robb knows he has Tywin prisoner. I'm glad you like my take on warging too – writing Robb's thoughts as 'wolf words' was a fun experience! Thanks for sharing your thoughts!

 **Alis B.M:** Catelyn's arrest of Tyrion was a detail I missed in writing my earlier chapters. He had his mountain men but she never took him to the Vale, thus the Blackfish remains there. It's a mess of minor changes to the storyline but, essentially, she takes him far enough into the Vale for him to find Bronn then hears of Bran dying. Tyrion, being Tyrion, turns her people against her, thus she leaves him to return North. The dwarf reunites with his father and gets his clansmen and, _hopefully_ , I've managed to return to canon compliancy. Thanks for your thoughts!

 **Guest:** Yeah, that's it in a nutshell. Robb's handing over a prisoner of war, whose only crime was being born into the family he was fighting, to Roose Bolton. There's no moral justification for it because it's a heinous thing to do, but without that girl, without that heir, the Dreadfort remains heirless (because legitimizing Ramsey isn't going to happen). That said, arranged marriage is still a thing in Westeros, and what is that if not selling off girls to the highest bidder? It happened with Margaery, what, three times? Wynafryd and Robb. Catelyn to Brandon and then to Ned. Cersi to Robert. From our, real world perspective, Westeros as a whole is a barbaric, hostile place with customs so backwards that they'd feel more at home in our middle ages. Which is exactly where the story takes place. Morally, to us, it's a crap thing to do. Morally, to Robb, it doesn't matter – the Dreadfort needs an heir. He has prisoners. Thanks for sharing your thoughts – I do mean that, your review made me look at the differences between our world and Westeros closer than I have in ages. The things the characters just accept without argument… some, if not most, of those things are crimes in our world.

To anyone I didn't mention explicitly, thank you for reviewing! Nearly 100 reviews, I hoped the story would get a reception like this though I didn't know what to expect. Seems like most people prefer Jon or Daenerys as a main character. I'm glad I was able to sell you guys on Robb!

Till next time,

-Phailen


	8. Chapter 8

**This story assumes basic knowledge about the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' universe and setting.**

 **[Year] – [PoV Character] – [City/Castle/Town], [Kingdom]**

* * *

 _One day later, 299 – Robb Stark – King's Landing, The Crownlands_

The method Lord Seaworth possessed to contact King Stannis ended up being a sheet of parchment colored a pure white and a quill colored pure black. Every letter the man wrote upon the page quivered and vanished after a time, to be shown on the matching parchment in King Baratheon's possession, the man said.

Indeed, only minutes after Seaworth wrote: _"Gate of the Gods. High-moon. Horns to signal."_ did words appear on the-then blank page.

" _We will be ready."_

And once that message was received, the parchment shriveled and blackened at the corners, crumbling to dust in seconds. Likewise, the quill caught fire and became naught but ash soon after.

"Witchcraft. Foul magicks," Lord Davos had muttered, sucking on his blunted, singed fingers.

Robb could not help but agree. Magic that required blood to fuel it was no magic to which he wanted to be a party.

Still, the parchment did its job, or so he had to believe. It was in King Stannis' best interest to come to an agreement with the King in the North and, after the man sent his own daughter to Robb's camps as a bargaining piece, he had to believe that King Stannis would not attempt to deceive him.

And so, now, hours later, he sat with five thousand of his horse cloaked in darkness. No torches were lit and the men were made to be quiet so that they could catch the Tyrells unawares. Even Grey Wind cooperated, the beast having not even let loose a single growl since he left Robb's camp hours earlier.

And now, they needed only to wait.

 _'Just a few minutes longer.'_

Lords Bolton, Tallhart and Umber were leading ten thousand of his remaining thirteen thousand foot. They also had with them the rest of his mounted men and women - one thousand light horse of the north and the eight-hundred hedge knights he picked up on his march east. Their job was to harass the Tyrell forces from the King's Gate when they inevitably tried to reinforce the men outside the Gate of the Gods, which was Robb's target.

He was half certain he did not need to be so cautious - nearly all of the Tyrell's mounted forces were within the city's walls - but he did not want to underestimate his opponent when he was so close to finishing this war.

A horn sounded.

The Smalljon's horn.

His men and women quieted and Robb chanced a glance at those next to him. Lord Karstark was solemn, a grimace on his face. Lady Maege Mormont was expressionless and Lord Mallister had his eyes closed and his hands folded in prayer. Flint, Norrey and Glover were there too. Manderly. Frey. Even a few Dustins.

Every one of them looked to him for leadership.

The thought made him uncomfortable, once.

But no longer. He was King in the North.

"This is it men!" Robb called, bringing his horse up to the front of the lines. "Tonight, we end this war! Tonight we secure our freedom! Tonight... Tonight! We fight for the North!"

The men and women before him cried out and if the Tyrells did not know they were there already, then they certainly did now.

"For the North!" He howled, urging his warhorse into a charge. His Lords and Ladies, men and women of the north, echoed his cry and soon the night was filled with the thundering of hooves, the clattering of armor and the whoops and cries of eager, blooded warriors. Thousands of warhorses ran at the encampment outside the Gate of the Gods, the men inside of it only belatedly realizing their situation.

Robb narrowed his eyes and adjusted his crown once more - a symbolic helm more than it was practical - as he eyed the tents and campfires rapidly growing larger. There were some rudimentary defenses around the camp - some ditches dug by the men and filled with refuse, even some pointed stakes sticking up out of the ground. But it was clear the Tyrells did not expect to defend themselves from the rear - an oversight if there ever was one, in Robb's mind.

They had to have known he was approaching the capital, after all. Not as a known enemy, no, but certainly as a potential one.

He forced those thoughts from his mind as he reached the first line of Tyrell tents. His horse was slowed by the trenches and the stakes but there was no formidable amount of men to defend the chokepoints yet. Only the night guard and a few half-prepared stragglers were vigilant enough to be awake, aware and not drunk. The northern horse continued into the camp unimpeded.

' _Poor sods,'_ he thought as he watched Grey Wind take down a man that knew to set his spear in the ground. His horse continued on, unbothered. _'They've their wits about them. The rest of the camp let them die alone.'_

Amidst the tents, men ran to and fro, some armored and some still naked, stumbling away from whores. Some had weapons whilst others carried their belongings in their hands, terror etched into every line of their face.

Robb swung his sword down at a man who only had a pair of pants on, removing the fool's head from his body. Grey Wind tackled another to the ground, the man's dying breath wasted as he called out for his mother.

Another fell to his sword. And another after that. And still more after the first three.

As he and his heavy northern horse - whooping and hollering and shouting - drove deeper into the camp, they did find some pockets of resistance. Men who had the presence of mind to flock to a commander, armored and holding spears, evidence that they had seen battle before.

It was only these men that offered any sort of challenge to Robb's attack. Only they who did not break at the mere sight of Grey Wind and five thousand horse of the North.

But those disciplined soldiers were few and far between and, in the end, they only managed to take perhaps one hundred of Robb's horse before they were all killed.

His opinion of the commanders and the warriors of the Reach plummeted but the deed was done all the same.

The Battle Under the Gate of the Gods was over. Within an hour of its start, The North had routed The Reach.

* * *

 _Three hours later, 299 – Robb Stark – King's Landing, The Crownlands_

It was under the very same gate won from the Tyrells that Robb now waited for Stannis Baratheon as his men and women scoured the camp for valuables. Occasional hoots and hollers went up when one found something nice and, together with the horses braying, it made for a familiar, comforting backdrop.

The sounds of a victorious army. Of happy men and women.

Far better than the burning wood and the occasional terrified scream he could hear from within the city walls.

That was to say nothing of the sudden surge of activity that his men and women reported seeing at sea. Ships burned that night, signs of a large battle between the forces of the Reach and the forces of the Stormlands.

When one of the larger vessels went down, a man could even hear the great _crack_ of its mast shattering. The _groan_ of a massive vehicle of wood and tar being torn asunder.

An eerie contrast to the sounds of his army if there ever was one.

"T'was too easy, Your Grace, taking this camp," Lady Mormont muttered from her horse at his side, drawing Robb's attention from the distant waters. On his other flank was Torrhen Karstark.

"I know, My Lady," Robb admitted. "I've sent your Jorrelle and Rickard Liddle over to the rest of our men, to see how they fair... But these men broke too easily before us and they numbered less than ten thousand, easily."

"Perhaps four," Torrhen agreed, cleaning his blade with a shirt emblazoned with a golden rose. "Methinks they went to the King's Gate - mayhaps they were warned of our attack?"

"That is not a possibility I can overlook," Robb muttered, thinking of his Tyrell wards, just as a cry went up from his men.

The King in the North put thoughts of spies from his mind and turned, only to find Jorelle Mormont and Rickard Liddle riding toward him.

"Your Grace," Jory shouted when she reached him. "Your Grace, we've word from Lords Bolton and Umber!"

"And Lord Tallhart?"

The woman hesitated.

"We didn't see Tallhart, Your Grace," Rickard Liddle said instead. "But Bolton and Umber took the camp outside the King's Gate-."

"They went on the attack?" Robb demanded, his eyes narrowed.

Liddle swallowed so Jory - after she received a nod from Torrhen - continued. "Your Grace... The other camp was undermanned as this one here. My Lords thought it prudent-"

"Prudent to turn this rescue into an invasion of the city, I suppose? We were not meant to be caught up in _two_ camps, one of which has been taken by our foot! One gate to hold and one gate only!"

No response was offered to him so he instead turned, seething, toward King's Landing itself. The Gate of the Gods loomed overhead, its great wooden doors swung wide open. Beyond them, Robb could see the Cobbler's Square in the distance and, just beyond that, the golden domes of the Great Sept of Baelor loomed on its hill, so faint that it looked only a vague shadow in the darkness.

Stannis was nowhere to be found.

Nor was Sansa.

In fact, the quiet of the city seemed too eerie for Robb's liking.

But that was unimportant, now. He had a battle plan to salvage and men to move to best retrieve his sister. The northern army was now fully engaged and their hand laid bare for all to see - the Tyrells would no longer leave them be outside the gates of King's Landing.

No, come morn, the rose of the Reach would prioritize Robb's army over Stannis', lest he take them from the rear and catch them between two hostile forces. He had faith in his northern men and women but not when they faced nearly two-to-one odds and an experienced commander in Lord Tarly.

"Your Grace," Jory continued, her voice quiet.

He turned his gaze from the city and allowed it to fall upon the girl. She winced and it was only then that he realized he was glaring at her. Quickly as could, Robb schooled his features back into a neutral guise – a skill he was, admittedly, having trouble channeling just then.

Jorelle Mormont swallowed visibly. "Men arrived part way through the battle, Your Grace. They- They fell upon our foot as they were finishing the last of the Reachmen."

His hands tightened around his reins and he only just kept his eyes from widening. Beside him, Maege cursed under her breath and cries of despair sounded from the men and women within hearing range.

"They bore the heraldry of the Golden Company, Your Grace. Lord Tallhart fell to their attack and the men under his command suffered mightily. Lords Bolton and Umber rallied the foot into a retreat but-"

He held up his hand, his other pinching the bridge of his nose. A sellsword company from Essos, now of all times? Could they not have found another time to serve their buyer's lust of that damnable throne?!

Could they not have waited just one more day to find a stake in this war?!

Another cataclysmic _crack_ came from the ships out on the bay, the sound loud and rare enough that he took notice of it despite his preoccupied mind.

Suddenly, the renewed conflict on the sea made sense. Robb knew admittedly little of The Golden Company but they had to cross the sea somehow…

"They brought their ships too," he vocalized under his breath, opening his eyes once more. Before him, King's Landing stretched out across the horizon in all of its burnt, looted and broken glory. "Probably took the Iron Gate or the River Gate… _wonderful."_

' _All this blood, for one_ _ **fucking**_ _city.'_

"How many did we lose?"

Jory looked away and Torrhen elbowed Rickard Liddle in the side.

The man growled but spoke all the same: "Tis not easy to count-"

" _How many!?"_

"Three thousand, or thereabouts, Your Grace," Liddle said quickly. "Another thousand injured and the hedge knights deserted when-"

" _Fuck_ ," Robb spat, turning back to his Lords and Ladies. Maege and Jory still remained, along with Torrhen Karstark and Rickard Liddle. Wendel Manderly was there now, too. All of them waited for his word, looking to him for leadership.

' _If only they knew how little of a plan I have, now.'_

But they needn't know that.

They _couldn't_ know that.

"Lady Maege," he started, evening his voice as best he could and straightening in his saddle. "See to it that the Lords Bolton and Umber reach this gate quickly - I want them here before the sun rises. Take what of the heavy horse you can rally."

The woman's eyes widened but she nodded, all the same.

He could understand her surprise - the sun was already beginning to cast a red hue over the horizon. It had not appeared yet but the night was no longer the night, so much as it was the early morning.

"Torrhen, organize what horse you can here. We'll push into the city while we wait for the rest of the army," he continued. Then, after a moment's hesitation: "Jorelle, at his side."

The pair smiled mirthful smiles at each other, nodded and were off. The interaction only solidified Robb's resolve to arrange a marriage between them. Lord Karstark would be pleased with a Mormont bride and Lady Mormont would see any of her daughters becoming Lady Karstark in a favorable light.

The familiarity of the situation – planning for the future of his kingdom - helped to calm his mind, Golden Company and attacked camps be damned.

He welcomed the clear-headedness readily.

"Do you have need of us, Your Grace?" Wendel said then, Rickard Liddle and Theon - who had just rode up to them - behind him.

"Nay, Lord Wendel. Not at present. Gather what men you can and meet me back here, swiftly... time is not on our side. We must wash our hands of this damnable city before the day's end."

Else his army would break, be it by sellsword arms or Tyrell swords, Robb did not know.

But that would not happen. Not while he lived and breathed. Not while he was King in the North.

* * *

 _Two hours later, 299 – Robb Stark – King's Landing, The Crownlands_

Since Lord Tallhart was slain in the fighting outside the King's Gate, that left his son and cousin of The King's own squire, Benfred Tallhart, as master of Torrhen's Square. Other than him though, Robb lost no men of note. Good men and women of the north died, yes, but none were highborn. None caused such a stir as the loss of Tallhart did.

The King in the North sighed, rubbing at his eyes.

Tallhart. Umber. Karstark. Mormont. So many names, so many faces.

So much death.

He tired of this war. He wanted it over. He wanted to return north, to see Winterfell again and enjoy the hard-fought peace that he and his men and his women secured.

And today…

He opened his eyes in a glare, eyeing King's Landing as it stretched out before him from his position under the Gate of the Gods.

Today, he would end the war for the North.

His army milled about behind him, most building up the defenses in the camp under the watchful eye of Lords Bolton and Umber. For their decision to attack the camp under the King's Gate – and subsequently make his army vulnerable to the surprise attack from the Golden Company – they were to improve upon the camp's fortifications and serve as the rearguard of Robb's forces.

Only after they had secured the escape route out of the city were they allowed sleep.

As for Robb, he and his heavy horse had stolen a few hours of rest while waiting for the rest of the army to join them. They were not well rested but they had energy and awareness enough to function for the next few hours.

And that was all the time his plan needed.

They were going to launch an assault on the city, one last push to end the war, to reach the Great Sept of Baelor.

His heavy horse - all five thousand that remained – were to be supported by the seven hundred light horse that survived the sellsword attack, the five and thirty hedge knights that did not desert and three thousand well-rested foot.

Progress would be slow. Street by street. Building by building. But anything else would leave him overextended and surrounded by the remaining thirty-some-odd thousand Tyrell swords.

The Golden Company, thankfully, remained still outside the King's Gate. The exact number of soldiers present was unknown but regardless of the sellswords' military strength, he would have to retrieve Stannis and his sister quickly, lest the Essosi fighters try to take the Gate of the Gods from his tired northern foot while he was gone.

Another _crack_ resounded in the distance, heralding the fall of another ship.

"Ready, then?" Robb asked the men around him in the silence that followed; it was more of a grunt than it was a properly spoken sentence but he was tired. He was tired and irritable and worried about Sansa and he wanted his war to be done... Never did he plan on invading King's Landing. Never did he think a distant sellsword company would throw their men and women into the war.

But he should have. Sellswords were a common enough sight in war. The foresight to see that escaped him still.

Bran's dagger felt heavy against his tired frame.

"Aye, we're ready," Lord Karstark muttered, Torrhen nodding alongside his father. The man would be leading one thousand heavy horse. Lady Mormont would take another thousand. Lord Mallister as well. Each would spread out their horse along streets and buildings near to the gate itself, forming a stronghold to which Robb could flee, when he retrieved Sansa.

And that was the goal of the last three thousand horse. Robb commanded half whilst Flint led the other half and the foot.

The King in the North would lead his men and women on a charge all the way to the Great Sept of Baelor. Lord Flint would do his best to hold the roads behind them.

It was a dangerous position - one the man volunteered to fill. Many of his men would die, for they would be attacked from all sides. But still, he stepped forward.

Robb would make sure he was properly rewarded when this war ended.

"Move out!" The King in the North called as his mind cleared and a calm descended over him. Worries and fears were pushed from his mind. His eyes focused. His senses heightened. The streets of King's Landing stretched out before him but at the same time a grin stretched across his face.

The end to this war, in sight but just out of reach, was _tantalizing_. He wanted it more than he had ever wanted anything in his life.

"Today is the day we end this war!" He continued, urging his horse into a trot. Hooves clopped and clattered over paved streets as they ventured into the sprawling city. Burnt out husks of buildings surrounded him on all sides very quickly, some with blackened skeletons still clawing their way out of windows and doors. He saw corpses and collections of bones, picked clean of meat by scavenging wildlife. An eerie silence was left where the chattering of people might have been.

King's Landing was a dead, empty city.

But that did not dampen his spirits.

They remained high even as the first portion of Lord Flint's horse broke off to hold the escape route. The foot followed at a distance, as fast as they reasonably could.

"We end this fight today! We'll show these southron boys what it means to fight the men and women of the North!"

A cheer rose up among the men and-

An answering howl echoed out from the ruins. Men - shouting, screaming and roaring - poured forth from buildings and alleyways. They were Tyrell men, with golden roses on their tunics and armor and swords held high in the air. Their bannermen were there as well in pinks and blues and yellows and all sorts of other flowery colors.

Not a single spec of red and gold, though.

Not even one Lannister.

"For the Reach!"

"For House Tyrell!"

"For King Aegon!"

The last call caught him off guard, completely and utterly, but he was offered no time to process this 'King Aegon' as the southron foot reached he and his heavy horse.

"Together, men!" Robb cried as he put the thoughts from his mind, swinging his sword down at a man wearing the red archer of House Tarly. The first blow knocked away his shield and the second split open his skull. He fell even as Grey Wind took another man to the ground, the large direwolf's jaws already bloody. "Form ranks! Together!"

He swung at another man - this one stumbling away from Grey Wind - and cut through most of his neck before turning and fending off a Fossoway man at his direwolf's flank. Still another swung at the wolf, drawing a yelp from the great beast as he spun to face the new threat.

Robb's attention was drawn away by a man swinging at him from his other side, having broken through Jorelle Mormont's defenses to reach the King in the North. He received a cut to his leg before he removed the man's sword arm, sending the unfortunate fellow to the ground amidst screams of-

Theon howled behind him and Robb grit his teeth, redoubling his efforts on hacking through the men in front of him. Cold slowly began to ebb and flow down his arms-

A horn - high pitched and not northern in the slightest - sounded in the distance and, suddenly, the attacking men were sprinting away. They disappeared into ruined buildings and shadow-strewn alleyways, abandoning the battle completely. His men followed them, hacking at their backs and spitting curses-

"No!" He yelled. "To me! To me! Do not follow! Do not follow!"

Most obeyed, but some did not. His hedge knights - for what few remained, he placed under Lord Flint's command - ran after the Tyrell forces, some on foot though most atop their horses. There were those that stayed but in the wide, open streets leading to the Cobbler's Corner, he saw some still ignore him.

"Rally, sons and daughters of the North! We reach the Great Sept as one! Charge! Forward! Forward!"

His heavy horse, having only taken light casualties in the ambush but disorganized and confused all the same, began to rally to him. Men and women answered his call with yells and shouts of their own, calling his name.

"King in the North!"

"Robb the Undying!"

"The Sly Wolf!"

"For the North!"

He grinned and returned their shouts with one of his own: "Forward!"

And so, forward they charged, full tilt.

Streets flew by in blurs. Fires still burning passed by quickly and blackened, smoldering ruins jumped out at him as he urged his warhorse forward. The sky, darkened and made opaque by thick layers of smoke, loomed ominously overhead. At times, he saw Tyrell men - jumping out at him from the ruins, building barricades or forming shieldwalls dozens of ranks deep.

He was forced to take side streets to avoid them more times than he cared to admit. Still, slowly but surely, he approached The Great Sept.

The King in the North heard more than he saw Lord Flint fall back to hold the streets behind him, shouting and screaming at his men to stop and take up defensive positions. Hopefully, the trailing three thousand foot would have reached the first portion of the defensive force by now.

Then, Robb turned a corner and the man's shouts were lost to the thunder of hooves behind him.

Another formation of men stood facing him in this street, standing shoulder to shoulder beside the collapsed ruins of a butcher's shop. They were close, this time, close enough to see the whites of their hard eyes.

The young king diverted down another side street, this one blessedly empty but for the ramshackle foundations of what was once a large inn.

Peasants, thin and fearful, scrambled out of the street when his horse spilled onto the cobbled road, most fleeing through the inn's open doorway. Wild dogs and stray cats made themselves scarce as well, disappearing into darkened alleyways between the husks of buildings. A great many corpses dotted the ground on this street too, most of them clothed in only rags and all of them rotten and stinking.

Robb paid them no mind, growing ever more excited as he spied the Great Sept of Baelor growing closer and closer through the space between buildings.

He turned another corner toward it.

Another shieldwall, dozens of lines deep.

Another detour down another side street.

A great crash sounded in the distance as his horse spilled into this newest side road and it was followed by the cheers of men and women. They sounded distant, far away, as though their voices could only be heard because there were a great many of them.

But Robb had no time to care for that nor what caused the great _**crack**_.

For as he turned another corner toward the sept and faced yet another cluster of Reachmen, he found a curious sight behind them.

Not another narrow street. No burning buildings or sharpened stakes, embedded into the cobbled road.

No, behind this cluster of soldiers… Robb saw a hill.

A great hill, very tall, upon which the golden domes of the Great Sept of Baelor sat. At the building's foundations, the corpses of men and horse lay together, so many that he could scarcely see the ground beneath them. The streets ran red with their blood and the smell was nothing short of horrific.

Then, as he rode closer, he became aware of the _noise._

Shouts and screams. Clashing steel. Horses neighing, braying in fear. The whistle of arrows.

The sounds of battle.

His eyes turned to the sight before him even as he urged his horse into a gallop, battle hardened instinct taking over. Elation crawled up and down his limbs at the same time the all-too-familiar coldness worked its way up his spine.

Grey Wolf howled and yapped and growled beside him, his great paws pounding on the street in time with the horses'.

"Forward!" Robb roared, holding his sword over his head. The Reachmen before him jumped at the sound of the horses and turned to face him, terror etched into features.

For they were a shieldwall, yes, but they were not facing Robb's charging horse.

They were facing toward the Great Sept of Baelor, where Stannis' horse fought them.

Grey Wind leapt upon a man's back even as Robb's horse trampled over three others, unprepared as they were for the charge. His sword took the head of another man even as he entered into the courtyard fully, the grey direwolf flying proud and tall from the mount his squire – Beren Tallhart – rode.

A cheer rose up from his men – the sword in his hand struck down at a hapless Tyrell soldier, cleaving his helm in twain and severing his arm at the shoulder – and that cheer was answered by Stannis' own men.

Sigils and colors flew before Robb's eyes as he pushed farther into the courtyard. He slew a man with a tower on his chest even as a man with a black crow was taken down by one with a golden rose. His horse trampled over a soldier with a merman on his tabard even as the King in the North intercepted a charge from a Tarly footman, thereby saving a horse bearing House Swann heraldry.

Theon cried out behind him and Robb turned-

Only to catch a sword swung by a Tyrell man at the last moment. Dacey Mormont wasted no time in taking his head, shouting apologies as she did so.

He turned back to the battle and cut down two more men, urging his horse forward as he did so. Grey Wind appeared at his side for a brief moment, just long enough to lunge at another man's neck even as Robb's sword removed another's head and yet another's arm.

Forward, he went.

Forward, cutting and hacking and cleaving and swinging his sword until his arm began to burn and the metal of the blade became nicked and dented. But he did not relent. Shields were crushed under his attacks. Helms were cut. Armor was ruined.

He reduced his first sword into a blunted mess and had to retrieve his secondary weapon from Beren.

But on he fought. Minutes, perhaps hours, Robb did not know. Men kept coming at him, shouting and yelling and spitting curses and he kept cutting them down. The number of them was an afterthought. Their colors and sigils were insignificant.

Dozens, he killed, at least. Tireless was his energy and what cuts and bruises he received did not touch his mind in the slightest. Powerful was his adrenaline rush. Potent was the cold creeping up and down his arms.

More than once, he caught passing glimpses of himself in the armor of his opponents.

His eyes glowed an eerie blue.

He fought on.

Until, after stabbing a man bearing a tower on his chest, he found himself in a clearing in the midst of the battlefield. No one in arm's reach. All around him, his men and women fought on horseback – there were some Stormlanders in the mix too.

But no Reachmen.

Robb blinked, only then realizing how heavily he was panting.

Wendel Manderly rushed by him, seven mounted men following the man of White Harbor's lead. They ploughed into a collection of Reach swords perhaps thirty strong, taking the formation from the rear and sending the men scattering.

On his other side, Jorelle Mormont and Torrhen Karstark rode side-by-side, cleaving heads from shoulders and arms from torsos, each yelling bawdy jests between shouting their kill counts.

Just behind him, Robin Flint was decapitating a man whilst Lady Maege Mormont rallied several dozen horse for a charge.

Grey Wind howled.

His blood sang, ice cold though it was, he could feel the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

Beren reached his side, the sword in the boy's hand was bloody.

He took a quick pull of a water skin his squire offered him, then-

A horn sounded.

It was the same high-pitched sound he heard before, when the Reachmen retreated. Short and queer, like it was made from an instrument far too small to be a horn.

But the men around him cared nothing for its oddness. Half fought on while the other half turned and ran. The men of the Reach – for they did not allow their women to fight, Robb knew – disappeared into alleyways and streets. They darted between the ruins of buildings and remains of open-aired courtyards. They left their dead behind and ran from the now-lost battle.

And all around him, Robb's men cheered.

And then, Stannis' began to cheer as well.

The King in the North blinked, only belatedly realizing he still held the water skin in his hand.

The battle was won.

King Stannis was free from the Tyrell's swords, trapped within the Great Sept no longer. He could leave the city now and continue on with his war over the Iron Throne at his leisure. The North had upheld its end of the bargain and even more besides, taking not only the Gate of the Gods but the Great Sept too! And all for-

' _Sansa!'_

The adrenaline left his limbs and his mental facilities returned to him in full. Battle lust gave way to rational thought once more and he realized, abruptly, that this war would be over as soon as he found his sister.

His sister that was supposed to be held by The Hound in the Great Sept of Baelor.

With a new sense of purpose, Robb Stark, King in the North, cast his eyes about the surrounding area.

The first thing he noticed were the corpses, many of them fresh. Horse and man alike bled out on the ground together, moaning and braying, pleading to be saved from the unfeeling hand of death.

The next thing he noticed was his men. Jorelle and Torrhen were safe, cheering and holding their swords in the air. Wendel Manderly too. Dacey and Maege Mormont were present as was Lord Cerwyn and Robin Flint and Lord Jason Mallister and many more besides.

Then came Stannis' men. There were too many sigils for Robb to recognize immediately – he was not entirely familiar with some of the Stormlands' heraldry – but he recognized Lords Estermont, Connington and Hasty, lifting their own swords in victory.

But no-

" _Robb!"_

Sansa.

His head whipped around toward his sister's voice even as his men and women of the North burst into renewed cheers.

He found her immediately, scrambling off of a horse in one of her dresses as she was. The thirteen year old girl looked so entirely out of place amidst the blood and corpses of a battlefield that Robb could not help but laugh, relieved and amused in equal parts.

Honestly, a silken dress colored a bright blue.

He laughed louder even as tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes and Sansa sprinted across the battlefield in full stride, dirtying the skirts of her dress as she did so.

His war was over.

Sansa reached up to him when she approached his horse and he stretched down a hand for her to grab. She did so and, without hesitating, he pulled her up to sit side-saddle in front of him.

His lands were safe.

She threw her arms around his neck as best she could over his armor and shoved her cheek into his, crying and sobbing half-formed sentences into his ear. He returned her embrace cautiously, ever conscious of the sharp edges of his armor, even as his laughter died down into a grin.

They could return _home_.

His men cheered.

Grey Wind howled.

And the North rejoiced.

* * *

 _Benfred Tallhart was drowned by Aeron Greyjoy after Theon and his Ironborn wounded the boy. But since Theon never went back to the Iron Islands, Benfred was never killed. Instead he lives to see the end of the Ironborn invasion of the North, lying only injured within Torrhen's Square from wounds taken during the Ironborn attack._

* * *

 **A/N:** And so ends part one of Robb's story. Did you catch the allegiance switch at the end there? Of the new player in the game that Robb does not know?

Thank you to everyone who has followed this story, from any point in its growth up until now. I hoped you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!

Looking to the future, I have an epilogue for you lot that I'll post in two weeks' time. After that, I have plans for a sequel and a rough draft of the plot written out that'll cover the end of the fight over the Iron Throne, Robb settling in as King in the North and the lead-up to the fight with the Others. However, I haven't started writing that yet and I'd rather get a few chapters down before I post anything, the better to know exactly where the story is going.

 **Umbrardor:** Thank you for the kind words! I set out to make this story paced quickly enough to not turn the War of the Five Kings into a slog but still slow enough to flesh it (and Robb) out completely. I'm glad you enjoyed it! And the Red Woman will indeed play a part in the North's future, Stannis is no doubt ready to be rid of her, after her predictions and magics only got him into a fight of attrition within King's Landing.

 **Lector123:** Thank you for your thoughts – I do go into my stories with a long term plot and a few milestones that I want to reach in between start and finish. I generally struggle to remain focused while I write, though, I'll have to take a look at reddit to see if anyone has something to say on that!

 **Riptide04:** Thanks for your review! I enjoy writing stories that haven't been done before the most, or taking plots that are looked poorly upon and doing them (I hope) well. Daenerys and Margaery being paired up with the protagonist are overdone, I agree, and I wanted those two to be more than arm candy besides. Or rather, I wanted this story to be read for more than just a pairing. As for Jon's parents… I honestly haven't quite decided yet – he's still up north doing Nights' Watch things and hasn't really gotten any face time because of it. Maybe by the time I sit down to write the sequel, we'll have some solid info on his origins? Ah well, thoughts for the future!

 **Melubarv:** Olenna only came to Kings' Landing retroactively in the books, if I'm remembering correctly. She travels slower and given the battle raging in the city, I imagine her staying back at High Garden until it was done makes sense. I very much doubt the Tyrells expected Stannis to give them as much trouble as he did, but inexperienced swords, the Stormlanders' calvary advantage and a little Red Woman magic goes a long way, you know?

 **Spectre4hire:** Thanks for your review! Robb has always been a favorite of mine too, though the second he married Jeyne in the books, I knew he was done for. Too many stupid decisions influenced by youth and a little too much honor. With a little more shrewdness, I figured he could make for a damn fine King.

 **Guest:** I'm glad you saw things from Stannis' point of view. He's a very… stubborn man, but even so, I don't think he's so stubborn that he'll intentionally make an enemy out of Robb. On another note, Margaery was tough to write for me, unexpectedly so, because Joffrey has always been such an asshole that him beating her felt like a given to me. Actually writing out the evidence of that, though… that was uncomfortable. You've got Olenna spot on, I think! She's still cooped up in The Reach, given the battle raging in Kings' Landing. No doubt she'll have a bone to pick with… well, everyone! I enjoyed reading your thoughts – you empathize well with all the characters. Thank you for sharing!

Till next time,

Phailen


	9. Chapter 9

_Six days later, 299 – Robb Stark – Hayford Castle, The Crownlands_

"Cheers, lads! To the _focking_ King in the _bloody_ North!"

The man, a Stark household guard named Roger, laughed a great belly laugh and lifted his golden goblet – "Got'em from a lion, I did!" – in the air. In the light of the fire around which he, Robb and their companions sat, it looked like the lions meticulously carved into its surface were moving.

A nice find, Robb allowed as he smiled beneath his tattered hood. Together with the plain leathers and chainmail shirt he wore upon his frame, he looked every bit a foot soldier and nothing like a king. Indeed, so thorough was his disguise that none of his men had been able to place him as their King in the North.

And this was the third time he decided to take a meal with his commonfolk too.

A cheer brought Robb's attention back to the campfire before him and the broth and bread in his hands.

It was not the meal of a king but then, he did not wish to be a king tonight.

"The King in the North!" Lyarra, an Umber sword cheered as she held aloft her mug.

"Aye! The bloody Sly Wolf will lead the North through winter!" Daryn, one of House Mallister's swords, agreed.

Together, the three of them drank deeply from their mugs, Roger's golden one drawing the eye of more than a few jealous observers.

"Tch, he's a damn fine sword, but he ain't all he's cracked up to be," one of the three remaining men muttered.

The comment drew glares from Lyarra and Roger while Daryn only shook his head. But it was Edd, another one from House Umber, that responded verbally.

"You weren't here for the battles in the Westerlands, Stormlander. Don't know _shite_ about King Robb."

Ronald Storm, bastard son of Ser Ronnet Connington and nephew of exiled Lord Jon Connington, only frowned. "I know he bumbled his way into catching Tywin Lannister with his pants down. The Lying Wolf, they call him, for he betrayed Riverrun-"

"Riverrun weren't never his responsibility in the first place!" Lyarra spat. "The King in the North fights for the North and the North alone! The Mallisters got it – that's why Daryn's here, you great arse!"

"A wise ploy," Ser Robin, their last companion, said. The man looked like an outlier in the group, for he was clad in finer leathers than the rest, meant to be worn beneath a suit of full plate as it was. "But dishonorable nonetheless. The Lying Wolf has earned his name."

Roger spat a piss-colored ball of spittle on the ground. "Ye' talk tough, Stormlander. Ain't no harm in winnin' wars."

Ser Robin frowned but said nothing further. Ronald Storm scoffed though and took up the argument in his place.

"Ain't no way to win a war! Who'll trust the word of a King that says he's headin' to a keep to defend it then turns and runs-"

"We didn' run yah arse!" Lyarra howled.

"We buggered Tywin _bloody_ Lannister and his _focking_ sons, we did!" Edd belted out at the same time, drinking deeply from his mug once he said his piece. Ale escaped the container and splashed down his beard, settling on the man's dirty, stained tunic. "Took the Rock from the lions too! S'where Roger got that shiny cup!"

The Stark household guard nodded, brandishing said shiny cup. The rubies that served as the lions' eyes glittered in the firelight.

"S'worth twice what I earn in a year!" The man said, grinning widely. "Don't care what yous says about King Robb – he's a bloody hero outta the Age of Heroes isself!"

"Guard that well, friend," Daryn, the Mallister sword, intoned, an easy-going smile on his face.

"Aye! I will!" Roger yelled, clutching the goblet to his chest.

"The spoils of war," Ser Robin muttered, tearing a chunk of bread off with his teeth. "No easier thing to make a man blind to the faults of his King."

"All kings have faults," Robb intoned at length, when silence began to stretch over the campfire. "They're men too."

"He speaks aftr'all," Edd muttered with a sidelong glance toward the King in the North. "Thot you were a mute, friend."

"Nay," Robb murmured around a spoonful of his broth. "Only quiet."

"All kings have faults, aye," Ser Robin agreed. "'Tis a thing a well-learned man would say."

Roger scoffed. "We're all well-learnt! Well-learnt in killin' an' whorin'!"

Edd cheered and, together with Roger, they drank deeply from their cups. Lyarra seemed nonplussed, though.

"Ain't nothin' ta be proud of, fool!"

"The hell it ain't!" Edd returned.

Ronald Storm grunted and turned his attention away from the two Umber guards, instead looking toward the King in the North.

"Ser Robin was not wrong, friend. You've a well-trained voice. You know our names and houses – what be yours'?"

Roger and Daryn quieted, listening rather intently now.

"Sod that!" Edd howled, waving his arm about over the fire. Some ale splashed out of his mug and landed upon the campfire, causing the flames to hiss and spit. "Ye' thot King Robb was a fool! S'why are we headed north with gold n' food n' whores aplenty!?"

Ser Robin and Ronald both recoiled away from the fire with scowls on their faces and turned to face the angry Umber guard.

Robb, for his part, breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Luck," Ser Robin stated. "How else would the gates of Casterly Rock open before him?"

"King Robb had men-!"

"He ordered men to travel back with the imp!" Lyarra howled, cutting off Roger. "Weren't no co-in-cid-ence! King Robb thinks better than ten men together!"

"A convenient excuse," the knight scoffed.

"Aye. No way The Rock gets taken so simply as that," Ronald said, nodding even as Roger discovered his golden goblet was empty. Clumsily, the man got to his feet to refill the cup.

Lyarra, meanwhile, scowled and Edd shook his head.

"He beat Tywin _focking_ Lannister. 'Course he took the Rock too!"

Daryn nodded. "Convinced me'lord Mallister to join him too."

Robb smiled an unseen smile, amused, for it was not _he_ who convinced Lord Jason… rather, it was the other way around.

"Another example of his lack of honor," Ser Robin said, eyes narrowed. "Tis not a king I'll follow that makes another man's bannerman leave him!"

" _Fock_ the Tullys!" Lyarra spat.

"Aye," Edd muttered as Roger sat heavily on the log he was using as a seat, goblet full again. "Them Tullys can't do nofink right. Riverlands're _focked_."

Ser Robin scowled again and Ronald opened his mouth-

"Robb! _Robb!"_

And conversation around the campfire hushed all at once as Sansa Stark paced by, two Stark guards following at her heels. Clearly, she was looking for him and judging by the expression on her face, it was something urgent.

He only hoped it was something that _did not_ have to do with Arya.

Because the two Stark sisters returned to bickering entirely too quickly for Robb's liking after they reunited.

"S'tha King's sister, ain't it?" Lyarra muttered, eyeing Sansa as she continued walking away.

Robb sighed and set his bowl down on the grass outside Hayford Castle.

"Aye, that it is!" Roger yelled. "I'd know'er anywhere! S'tha Princess, fer sure!"

The King in the North pushed himself to his feet with a groan, old aches and pains returning to him after his time sitting on the ground.

Honestly, he did not know how his men did it. That was one of the reasons he joined them for their meals on occasion, actually, to see things from their perspective. The better to remind him of the luxuries he took for granted.

"What's the rush, friend?" Ser Robin intoned, drawing the attention of those around the campfire back to him.

Robb shook his head. "I thank you all for the meal, but I'm afraid I must tend to my sister."

Then, without any further hesitation, he drew back his hood and turned toward said sister.

" _Sansa!"_

The shout drew the girl's attention and the attention of every man and woman within the surrounding area, his campfire companions included.

"Oh _fock!_ It's tha bloody King in the North!" Edd muttered, his eyes wide and fingers numb, if the way he dropped his broth bowl was any indication.

"I told yous it was him!" Lyarra insisted even as Roger managed to close his mouth and Daryn bowed his head.

"King in the North," he intoned.

Robb waved them off and began pacing toward Sansa, passing by Ser Robin and Ronald Storm in the process. Both of them sat silently, evidently shocked speechless by his presence.

"All kings have flaws," he said before he left the campfire's proximity entirely. Idly, he reached into a plain bag at his waist and pulled out his crown. "And all kings face difficult choices. I did the best with what I had."

The crown was placed atop his head, amidst his dark, almost-black, auburn locks and he left the circle without looking back.

* * *

 _Later that day, 299 – Robb Stark – Hayford Castle, The Crownlands_

"He wants to speak with you, Robb," Sansa insisted, fingers curled around his arm as they walked through his army's camp. Cheers and calls followed them all the way to the command tent, shouts heralding his victories and praises calling out his titles.

It was addicting to hear so many approving voices singing his praise.

He was thankful for the dissenting voices – like those of Ser Robin and Ronald Storm – for they kept him humble. It was a difficult thing to learn, accepting criticism from those of lower station. Harder still to keep putting it to practice, for they knew _nothing_ of the pressure he faced every day, of the choices he was forced to make. But he listened to those dissenting voices all the same, lest he become a king like Joffrey Waters.

"Aye, The Hound wants to speak. King Stannis wants to speak. The Red Woman wants to speak. Margaery asks for my attention. My banners want for my ear, too," he muttered to her, waving at his men-at-arms only when particularly vigorous cheers reached his ears. "Tis why I chose to take my meal with my men tonight, sister."

"He grows weary of being ignored, Robb."

"And weary he shall remain. I told him I would speak with him once we reached Moat Cailin, speak there we shall."

Sansa frowned, the expression putting lines into her cheeks that should not be there. Not on his sister. Not on a girl of three and ten.

But there they were, all the same.

"Sister," he started, straining to keep himself from frowning too. Sansa was… volatile, more than she once was, after her time spent in King's Landing. "Come, let us speak, my tent is near."

" _Now_ you wish to speak?" She returned. "Then I will find Sandor, we-"

"With you, sister. No one else."

Her nostrils flared and her fingers tightened around his arm, but she let him lead her to his tent all the same. It was a moderately sized thing, located near to the heart of his army's encampment, large enough only for a cot, a chest, a writing table and a pile of furs for Grey Wind.

The direwolf was there when they entered the space but did not react in the slightest to their presence, content to nap on his side as he was.

An aspect of their growing bond, Robb knew. With nary a thought, he could now figure out where Grey Wind was whenever he wanted. Though he had no way to confirm it, he believed the same to be true of the great wolf.

"You should take a larger tent as your own, Robb," Sansa said, sighing as she sat down upon the cot. She spared a glance at Grey Wind – an almost longing look – but that faded quickly enough once he moved to take the shawl off of her shoulders.

"Don't," she said, eyes narrowing into a glare for but a moment. Then, they softened almost as quickly whilst a small smile tugged at the corner of her lips. "I have none of my northern dresses with me and none that belong to the women among the camp is fit for my status. Shawls and overcoats will keep me warm in silks until then."

He nodded, pulling the chair away from his writing table. "I like my tent, sister. 'Tis enough room for me and hard for those who wish me ill to find."

"Yet it displays power and prestige like a donkey next to a warhorse."

"My power and prestige is known among the men and women, sister."

She sighed, an easy smile on her lips. It was an argument they had nearly every day, his tent. She was of the opinion that he needed something more befitting his position as King of the North, lest his smallfolk begin to talk.

Perhaps she was right, appearances were important, but Robb's meals taken around campfires offered him insight that his sister lacked. His men and women were far too taken with the spoils of war to care how their King slept… for now.

"How are you, sister?" He said, eyeing her from his spot in the chair. Where she was once stick thin and gaunt, she was now starting to regain some weight, a little more fullness to her cheeks and muscle to her arms. Still, scars – both mental and physical – remained from her time in King's Landing. Her back was… it was a rictus of puckered skin and angry red welts, the gifts bestowed upon her by a whip. A sight he had only seen accidentally.

They had not spoken a single word of it since.

"I am well, Robb," Sansa said, rubbing at her arms. A crooked grin touched her face. "Wishing for heavier dresses, cursing my younger self for failing to pack any – so naïve I was. They are outdone by the silks of the south but against the bite of winter, they shine…"

He rubbed at his eyes, reclining fully in his chair. "You know what I mean, sister. Your time in King's Landing was spent being punished by that witch and her dunderhead son for my exploits. I-"

"I do not wish to speak of it."

He frowned, thinking on Arya's turmoil and how she opened up to him – inadvertently or not – at Golden Tooth. "It helps to speak of it."

She looked up sharply at that, a product of just how sharply he'd spoken. It came across more as a demand than a request, he knew, but frustration colored his words.

"I am not a _child_ , Robb. Do not treat me like one."

He shook his head. "I worry for you, Sansa. I am your brother first and your King second. What you suffered through…"

She swallowed and rubbed at her arms, he saw gooseflesh there, brought on by the cold.

"I worry over your health. I worry over your fascination with this Red God."

The instant it was said, he knew it was the wrong way to word it.

"Fas- My _fascination_?" She parroted, her eyes growing wide and her lips pulling down into a scowl. "My fascination with the Red God is what gave me the strength to stand up after I was beaten and broken. You… I cannot believe you!"

"It was a poor choice of words," he said, on the back foot already and cursing himself for the misstep. "I only worry that you were taken in by honeyed words at your lowest-"

"How dare you!?" Sansa thundered, standing abruptly.

"I must!" He returned, standing as well. He stood a head taller than her. "I've spoken to that woman, heard her words! They are poisonous, sister, they-"

"I'll not hear a word more of this," she declared, crossing her arms. " _That woman_ has a name, Robb. Use it."

He shook his head and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Frustration. Anger. All sorts of emotions came to him when he thought of the Red Woman. She was beautiful, certainly, but that was her only redeeming trait. She used her tongue to twist truths and lead honest people astray. Her hands were stained with the blood of innocents. Her mind was tainted by the Red God's hateful faith.

"She is a poison, Sansa. A poison!"

"She cares, Robb! The Hound spirited me out of that _blasted_ keep months ago, a pathetic, little, weak, broken, stupid, naïve girl!" Tears were gathering at the corners of her eyes, now. "Months I spent in that sept, surrounded by gods who did _nothing!_ But Melisandre…"

The girl shook her head, sniffing once, before she began dabbing at her eyes with the edges of her shawl.

Robb sighed. "Our gods are old, Sansa, you know that."

"No, Robb," she said, shaking her head. "My god is red."

* * *

 _Two months later, 299 – Robb Stark – Darry, The Riverlands_

"I mean to head east, to Saltpans," Stannis Baratheon said, looking out over the three Rivers Fork as they spilled into the Bay of Crabs. He was garbed in a plain woolen tunic that bore his new sigil – a burning stag. Behind him, his men-at-arms waited, on foot and horseback both. They were a proud sight, standards held high and more organized than Robb's northmen and women would ever be.

But then, he had mountain clansmen to contend with among his own banners. Parade formation was never going to happen.

"I wish you well, King Stannis. Mayhap one day soon, I will see you on the Iron Throne."

"Once the bastard children have been dealt with. And this child who claims Aegon's name."

Aegon Targaryen. The boy who supposedly died during the Lannister sack of King's Landing at the end of Robert's Rebellion. He was but a babe when it happened and already spreading the story that another boy infant replaced him whilst he was spirited away to Meereen.

"Tis a story only Gregor Clegane can confirm. That brute was said to have dashed the boy's head against the wall…"

"He will be sought by many," Stannis agreed, glancing back at Castle Darry.

It was an old thing, not too large and not too small. It sat close to the Kingsroad atop a strategic hill that overlooked the Ruby Ford.

It was also one of many castle burned by Gregor Clegane. The Mountain that Rides was still pillaging and raping in the Riverlands, even so many months after he lost his Lannister masters. The four thousand horse he had with him doubtlessly too much for any single castle's garrison to handle.

"The beast will make a very valuable hostage to this Aegon Targaryen," Robb mused. "Were he close to mine own force… Ah! But I lust after gold still, greed is a terrible influence."

"You have made a name for yourself, Sly Wolf, see to it that it does not go to your head."

The King in the North frowned, not because of the slight, but because there was a bitter note to Stannis' voice that the elder man did not, or could not hide.

"I will not, Your Grace," he said at length, putting the matter from his mind. "Still, Edmure Tully commands nine thousand men. Ridding him of the Mountain that Rides…"

"Lord Seaworth and I have spoken at length on the matter," Stannis offered, whatever bitterness came over him gone, now. He spoke easier now, with the comfort of a man who knew how to make war. "The Riverlands' men would be a boon and the Westerlands are nearly free for the taking thanks to your efforts, Your Grace. But the issue of Aegon Targaryen remains. Even without the Vale and Dorne, he still commands the Reach and the Golden Company – perhaps forty thousand men between them. Too much to deal with."

Robb nodded, conceding the point. "Then you sail to the Stormlands?"

"I will not share my plans so easily, King Robb," Stannis returned, not even a whisper of a smile on his face.

The man was hard, surly almost. And the weathered lines on his face only emphasized that.

"I understand," the King in the North said.

A moment of silence passed between them then with only the rushing waters of the river below to fill the void. Stannis cast a watchful eye over his men, hands folded behind his back.

Robb, instead, turned to his own army. They were arrayed haphazardly, tents pitched with no sense of organization or discipline, something he was only now realizing. The stakes and trenches dug around the camp were broken up into sections and each one looked to be dug quickly and without concern for the others.

They were, in a word, a disorganized mess. Drunk on victory and high on the spoils of war.

Whilst on the campaign trail, their tents were pitched in rough rows and the camp's defenses were far more organized.

But his men and women deserved a break, after all the victories they won for him.

Sentimental, perhaps, but only the Mountain that Rides threatened his army now.

And disorganized they might be, his nine thousand foot and five thousand horse were more than a match for that brute's paltry four thousand mounted men.

Provided, of course, that he receive a warning of Gregor Clegane's approach.

To that end, he employed twice the number of scouts he normally did and sent the vast majority of the them west of his army and its trains.

Sentimentality tempered by practicality.

What he hoped was an acceptable middle ground.

A cluster of people broke free of the tents then, beginning the climb up the hill upon which he and King Stannis stood.

"Your Grace," Robb intoned, waiting until he heard the older man shift behind him to continue. "Your daughter comes."

Indeed, Shireen Baratheon was pacing up the hill with Sansa at her side. They had their arms locked at the elbow and, behind them, six Stark swords walked.

Stannis hummed, stepping forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with him.

Though that was more a figure of speech than anything. The Baratheon King was just as tall and wide-shouldered as Robert, though far less fat.

"Look after her, King Robb. Where I go now is no place for a child content to have only a fool as a companion."

The King in the North swallowed and only just suppressed his grimace, surprised that Stannis' unforgiving nature carried over into his demeanor as a father.

"I will keep her safe, happy and learned, King Stannis."

"More of the first and the last. My late wife met her end during my time in King's Landing and Shireen will only benefit from escaping that woman's smothering embrace. Still, the damage has been done. The girl is soft and cares only for things that amuse her."

The man paused, grinding his teeth. "But she is my daughter. I- She needs strength to survive this world. I cannot give her that."

The man stopped there and Robb got the distinct feeling that he wanted to say more.

But only silence stretched between them.

* * *

 _Two months, 299 – Wynafryd Manderly – Moat Cailin, The North_

Her hair was pulled and twisted and pinned that morne into a ring of curls that spun round the back of her head, as majestic a crown as she'd ever have until her marriage. Her skin was scrubbed and her face powdered. Her best dress was donned and fretted over until every crease and fold was gone.

And then the entire process was done over again when she climbed atop her horse, a gorgeous white mare she'd had since she was a child.

Majesty, the horse was called.

' _Oh, but the irony,'_ Wynafryd thought as sat, perched in side-saddle fashion, waiting for her future husband to travel up the road with his army.

Even now, she could catch glimpses of them through the thick tree cover of The Neck. They were a long, long line of colors and shining steel. Of grandiose carriage-houses and cart upon cart of what she could only imagine were the spoils they'd earned in war.

The spoils her husband earned as a boy-turned-man of only seven and ten.

The Sly Wolf, he was called. Lion Slayer. Robb the Wise. Robb the Daring. Robb the Undying. He was called The Chain Breaker, The King in the North, The King of the Old Gods.

So many titles, so many songs and stories of his exploits. His name and reputation grew and grew with stories of every victory that reached The North. Already, even the ruined Moat Cailin received no less than two bards who sung of a Robb Stark that charged into lines of Lannister men-at-arms to claim Casterly Rock himself, only his fearsome dire wolf at his side. Others sang more generally of his campaign through the Westerlands and his vengeance satisfied over his father's death. Still more sung of his first victory in The War of Five Kings – his devastating rout of Tywin Lannister's forces that set the pace of the rest of his war.

Wynafryd listened to each of these songs closely, for beyond the fanciful words and colorful descriptions, there was a nugget of truth. A piece of the puzzle that was her husband. Together with his letters, she began to paint a picture of the man that was her betrothed.

For she desperately wanted to know him.

Not out of eagerness or a girlish need to know more of her knight in shining armor – though she would not deny that those urges played a part in her curiosity.

No… More than that, she wanted to know Robb Stark because he was an unknown. He was a man she was to be attached to until her death yet she knew nothing of his desires or his habits. His vices and his virtues. He was an unknown that had quite sufficiently managed to throw her life into a chaos she never expected.

A chaos that was war – a man's game. Court was her game. It was a woman's game and the only one she thought to play.

Until, of course, she became betrothed to the man leading The North in a war for independence. Until his holdings became _her_ holdings too and so, when the Ironborn attacked, the smallfolk looked to _her_ for salvation. The burden of freeing keeps fell, in part, upon her own utterly unprepared shoulders.

Wynafryd Manderly learned then that she was not allowed to hide away in a castle and claim ignorance any longer.

She was to be Queen.

Queens did not get to ignore war. Queens were not allowed to remain safe, behind strong castle walls.

Queens were expected to lead. _Northern_ Queens were expected to lead moreso, lest they be shown up by the likes of Lady Maege Mormont and her fighting womenfolk.

Wynafryd shifted her shoulders. Her elaborate dress fluttered. Her painstakingly-styled hair shifted.

And the bow on her back clattered together noisily with her quiver of arrows.

And the iron-studded, leather corset she wore over her gut creaked alongside her pauldrons and armguards.

And the newly forged short sword hanging from her hip clattered against the buckler hanging off Majesty's saddle.

Together with her white-and-grey dress, she looked every part a Stark warrior queen.

Or, she desperately hoped she did. Fear that she would fall short of her husband's expectations – despite his kind words in the letters they shared – matched in intensity her need to know more of him, to make him a known quantity in her game.

' _I wonder, is this how Margaery Tyrell felt when she was shipped off to marry Renly Baratheon, and then the boy king after that?'_

But Margaery Tyrell – before she was made a ward of Winterfell - was a Lady in the south. She was expected only to host parties and partake in all manner of courtly activities. Wynafryd did not have that luxury.

No one _expected_ her to lead, of course. The current Lady Stark could not fight at all and many other women of the North were the same. They hid behind castle walls and Wynafryd, if she wished it, could too.

But Lady Stark was not a Queen and hiding behind walls while Robb Stark fought for The North would not earn the young Queen the respect of her soon-to-be banners. She would be another wall flower, there only to serve as an eye-catching partner to the King in the North.

Wynafryd Manderly did not want to fight in battles and learn to use a man's weapons of war. She feared it all terribly.

But she _loathed_ being dismissed as decoration for the King's arm even more.

So she learned. She asked Marlon Manderly to teach her to swing a sword and shoot a bow as they sieged Moat Cailin. She sweated and fell and dirtied herself until she was so tired that she no longer cared how humiliating it was to fail so often in front of men that could best her easily in a fight. She sat in on their meetings and learned what she could of blocking supply routes and establishing army camps. She spent time with the Stark, Manderly and Dustin men-at-arms under her great-uncle's command, as she heard Margaery Tyrell was like to do with her own smallfolk. The conversations were often stilted and awkward, the lack of common interest between them too large a divide for her social niceties to bridge.

But she did it all anyway.

Every single thing she could do to prepare to be a… a _Queen_ was done.

All that remained was to learn intimately the kind of man Robb Stark was.

"They come," Marlon intoned at her side, his wizened voice neutral. He paused as she straightened her shoulders, then: "T'will all be passed soon. You'll impress Robb Stark, mark my words."

"One can only hope," she said, swallowing the lump in her throat and worrying the reigns of Majesty. Her fingers, callused and scarred, began to fiddle with one another before she caught herself.

' _He'll like your hands,'_ she told herself again, hating that she doubted it but doubting all the same. _'Hands of a woman trained to fight. Respectable.'_

Or so she desperately hoped.

The open gate under which they waited creaked and groaned loudly then, the ramshackle thing doing its damnedest to remind them that Moat Cailin was in a state of heavy disrepair. Forests surrounded the keep and the road in front of it on all sides. The path itself was straight as an arrow to the north but it twisted and turned heavily to the south, allowing them to see only as far as the first bend before trees largely blocked their view.

But Wynafryd did not need to see them to know the army was close – she could hear them easily, now.

And just as that realization came to her, men rounded the bend in the trees.

The Stark direwolf led the procession and she knew immediately that the man at its front was Robb Stark. He rode with a different bannerman every day at the front of the column, to better know his vassals, he told her.

She thought it a wise thing to do. Men would fight harder for a leader they knew – Marlon told her so. That her betrothed knew that and cared enough to know his men in return spoke highly of his character.

She felt her mind relax somewhat, the doubts fading from her thoughts.

Wynafryd knew much about Robb Stark, after all. Her worries were likely unfounded - all of what she knew told her he was a kind, empathic King in the North. He would accept her as his Queen whether she could fight or not. Whether her hands were soft or not.

She nodded, mostly to herself, though Marlon chortled under his breath all the same.

She ignored him, too used to his behavior after sieging Moat Cailin for months at his side.

' _ **He**_ _was at_ _ **your**_ _side,'_ she reminded herself, despite how... _childish_ the thought seemed.

Regardless, they knew each other well now.

She swallowed again and forced herself to breath as deeply as she could with the corset fixed around her midsection. It was tighter today than it normally would be – her dress longer, too. More for show than anything, she found fighting in anything but a tunic nearly impossible.

"There we are," Marlon murmured to her left.

She looked up at the road then and only belatedly realized that the horses were seconds away. Men and women of all shapes and sizes road upon them and she saw the Mormont bear, the Umber giant, the flayed man of the Boltons and several sigils more – even the twin towers of the Freys – but those colors were lost to her when she focused her eyes on her betrothed.

He had dark hair. Darker than she thought it would be, given the shade of Lady Catelyn's. His shoulders were wide and he looked like he stood at an average height – taller than her but not overly so.

' _Good,'_ she thought as her mind settled fully. Uncomfortable and clumsy she may be on a battlefield, Wynafryd Manderly felt more at home watching people and learning from it than she did in her own bed at times.

And, blessedly, observing her betrothed returned an easy calm to her mind that she welcomed readily.

His features were well defined and she saw only a healthy amount of fat on him, not like the late King Robert… No, Robb Stark was fit and strong and well-muscled and she had to force herself not to stare at his cheekbones and jawline as he drew near. Attractive he may be, the first impression she wanted to leave in his mind was not that of a blushing girl-child.

' _Speaking of first impressions,'_ she thought, clearing her throat even as Marlon sucked in a breath next to her.

She beat him to it.

"Moat Cailin is yours', Your Grace," she enunciated perfectly, deepening her voice somewhat to help it carry better over the noise of the army.

Robb's eyes, which had only just made it to her when she spoke, widened.

She saw him look at the bow on her back, the sword at her side and the armor – lady-like and impractical though it was – on her torso.

Then, he grinned.

It was a toothy thing, wide and earnest.

She found her own lips curling up into a smile before she knew what was happening.

"Wynafryd Manderly," her betrothed stated through the grin even as Marlon snorted beside her.

She ignored him.

Robb did too, thankfully.

"Forgive me if it seem forward, My Lady," he continued, bringing his horse around to stand next to Majesty. "But I feel I know you well enough to at least call you by your name."

Her smile widened ever so slightly. The grin on his face was still there and, by The Seven, it was contagious.

"I think that fitting… Robb. We are to be married, after all."

He laughed, then admitted. "I still can't quite believe that."

Lady Maege Mormont stopped on Robb's other side even as another person on horseback stopped next to Marlon. Wynafryd did not turn to see who it was. Other highborn Lords and Ladies began entering Moat Cailin's courtyard all around them but she did not stop to look at them either.

Robb was… effectively commanding the entirety of her attention.

"I've fought a war for nearly two years, killed more men than I care to admit, schemed enough to make me want to bathe for an entire day and yet… _Marriage_ is still the most difficult challenge that lay ahead of me- _Us._ "

Wynafryd found his honesty refreshing. She should have expected it, though, from his letters.

"I shall endeavor not to make it overly difficult for you, Your Grace," she said, lowering her voice and trying her damnedest to make it sound cross through the smile that she _could not_ banish.

The King in the North – leader of men, killer of lions and winner of Northern independence – grunted and turned to look at her with wide eyes. "I did not mean to imply that you were the cause of- that you were the reason I looked upon marriage as something difficult and… and… Are you smiling? My- Wynafryd!"

He laughed. A loud belly laugh that threw his head back and caused some heads to turn their way from the men and women in his – _'Their?'_ – army.

Lady Maege laughed too and Wynafryd found herself giggling – _giggling_ – too.

Honestly.

Was everything about this man so contagious? She scarcely even cared that the sound was spilling from her lips, enraptured as she was with the sight of her betrothed laughing so joyously.

Even more enrapturing to her was the fact that she caused it.

A wide grin, probably as toothy as Robb's, split her lips.

Then, chants reached her ears amidst the mirth.

Chants that honored Robb as King in the North first, then The Undying second. Then another cheer that erupted in honor of the North entirely.

And then a cheer that shocked her into silence was shouted.

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"

She swallowed and blinked, once, twice, three times before a hand landed on her shoulder.

Wynafryd turned away from the men marching on the road, silent and still unsure of what to feel at hearing her future title spill from the lips of so many. She found Robb looking down at her – his horse was larger than Majesty, meant for war as it was - from under his hair.

It made him look endearing. Gentle. Kind.

And comely.

' _He is closer than I thought.'_

She felt her cheeks heat.

"You'll grow accustomed to it," he said, an easy smile on his lips. He squeezed her shoulder once then reached down into one of his saddlebags, retrieving from it a small sack.

Even still, the chant continued, picked up by new voices as men and women strolled by the opening to the courtyard.

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"

"You are everything I could have hoped for," Robb said again, his eyes flickering up to meet hers, then down at the ground, then back up again. "I… I imagine you feel how I felt when I was first crowned – overwhelmed and grateful and, truthfully, quite scared… I…"

He snorted and urged his horse a little closer to her own. They were close enough now that she could smell him – metal and dirt and sweat that combined together to create an almost overpowering smell of what she could only describe as _war_. But underneath the caustic scents of iron and steel and blood, there was an earthy scent that sent a tingle down her spine.

Wynafryd leaned closer to him.

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"

"I spent so long trying to find the right words to tell you in this moment," he continued, glancing out at his men ever so briefly. He turned back to her.

His eyes were so _blue_.

"Those men and women out there rely upon you – us. So many people look to us for leadership and just _expect_ us to know what to do and how to act and when to move and so many other things…" He shook his head. "I did nothing but doubt myself for three days after."

"You told me so," she said softly, a smile playing on her lips. "It wasn't until you found your sister that you seemed happier."

He blinked, his eyes drifting down to her mouth, before looking back up at her again. "I don't… I don't want you to go through that. Doubting yourself."

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"

"I have, already," she admitted, glancing down at her corset.

His fingers caught her chin then and her breath left her at the feeling – rough digits, almost too rough. They scratched at her skin and instead of pain or annoyance she found that Robb's fingers left only heat in their wake.

"I'm afraid I can't keep you from worrying," he said, his eyes delving into her own. "Those doubts will come and go."

He shifted then, shaking his free hand until the object he retrieved from his saddlebags was freed from the bag-

She gasped.

It was a crown. Iron and bronze like his own but smaller, thinner. More elegant.

Hers.

"But I can promise you I'll be there to support you every step of the way," he said, his cheeks reddening as he urged her gaze back up to him. "Can you promise me the same?"

"Queen in the North! Queen in the North! Queen in the North!"

His fingers were still on her chin. His scent was still in her nose.

It made her thoughts sluggish.

But even through the haze, she realized what he said. She was a fool to even worry over meeting him, in truth. She knew him from his letters. She knew he was kind. She knew he would _try_.

The crown – _her_ crown – caught the midday sun in his fingers.

And then she realized how close his face was to hers.

The scent. The fingers. The thoughtfulness.

She stood in her saddle and crushed her lips against his before she could second guess herself. Her hand came up to rest on his nape to steady herself and her other fisted in his tunic. His own threaded itself into her hair and made a mess of her curls but she did not care.

Not one whit.

The only thing she cared for were the tingles running up and down her spine.

But all too soon, it was over.

They separated and she drew back, her face as hot as his own looked and with a taste left lingering on her lips that was not hers. It was different. Heady.

Impossible to ignore.

She _liked_ it.

And then she became aware of the shouting.

Robb and she both looked back out at the men and women on the road in front of it, each one with their fists in the air. Each one whooping and hollering as loud as they could. Each one yelling something different until it all flowed together into a cacophonous racket.

And, sure enough, she felt her hair touch the back of her neck, undone by Robb's-

Something heavy was placed upon her head.

The men and women in front of her cheered louder.

Belatedly, Wynafryd Manderly realized her betrothed had just placed a crown atop her head.

No ceremony, no words, no rites in front of a Heart Tree or vows in front of The Seven.

He just _did_ it.

She turned to him, wide eyed.

He shook his head, grinned and put a hand on her back.

And somehow, in some way, that put her at ease. She, for once, did not bother pondering the whys and hows of it all.

Instead, she smiled back at him and stood in the saddle again, waving to their men and women of the North.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's been a good run, guys, and I'm glad you were here with me for it. I hope you enjoyed this alternative take on the War of Five Kings and Robb Stark, as well as the North, getting a happier ending than they did in the books. Some logic had to be stretched, certain people had to be in the right place at the right time, but what is that if not a little luck?

Anywho, I used this chapter to set the tone for the sequel. I haven't begun actually writing that yet, so no promises as to when I'll start releasing it – I'm actually trying to work through a Dragonball Z fic at the moment. Regardless, I do intend to finish this story someday, and with more than one **PoV character**. Wynafryd Manderly will be the second PoV and, depending on how much detail I want to go into when Aegon and Daenerys begin fighting it out, maybe a third too.

Now, onto to my last review responses! Thank you all for your thoughts, even those I don't explicitly mention – I enjoy reading your words. They make writing all the more fulfilling, that appreciation shown to me, even when it's criticism.

 **TMI Fairy:** Varys did indeed manage to make the kingdoms burn a little better than in canon here – Robb unwittingly helped a great deal with that by living! Of course, the North is in a good spot but against the other six kingdoms (perhaps after winter passes and they've had a chance to recover) it doesn't stand much of a chance. Problems the Stark in Winterfell must face in the future, no? Thank you for your review, and all your others too!

 **Riptide04:** No worries, I left most of the Tyrell switch details out because Robb doesn't yet know them. There's a little more betrayal and subterfuge there than first implied, but we'll see that later, for now just knowing that the Reach switched sides is enough. Daenerys is indeed still on her way over to Westeros – I left her canon alone completely since Robb didn't really effect anything that happened to her… Though she won't have Tyrion (as in the shows) or Varys or Seaworth (also as in the show) to help her plot. She'll still have Barristan Selmy, since Varys' managed to get him dismissed early in the war, but that's pretty much it. And the dragons, of course… always the dragons. She'll still be a formidable opponent, but there are easier prizes than the North to snatch, closer to her Iron Throne and far more appealing, especially in the dead of winter. Her arrival will certainly throw the Seven (Six?) Kingdoms into chaos all over again, just as Robb's continued life will change the situation at the Wall, as you noted. Thank you for your thoughts, and all the other reviews you've posted as well!

 **Hadrian Potter-Peverell-Evans:** And isn't that a name! I always liked the idea of Harry being called Hadrian, sort of a Pureblood name, even if it doesn't jive well with his canon personality. Anywho, Ice. You're right, the Lannisters wouldn't have had much of a chance to break it down, even if they thought to without Tywin there. Ser Ilyn Payne, the executioner, likely still has it somewhere in the Red Keep. Or maybe Cersei took it to give to one of her faithful guards… I'm not entirely sure yet, I'm only certain it's still intact and somewhere in King's Landing. Robb didn't have much of a chance to grab it, however, since he didn't know where it was and time was against his staying within the city walls. Pragmatism and all that. It'll probably make an appearance later, though the details of where/when are still up in the air at this point. Thanks for your review!

 **The Jingo:** You misunderstood, I said I wanted this story to be read for more than just a pairing and that's still true. I never said I was going to ignore it entirely – Wynafryd was always going to be a PoV character once it came time for her to enter the picture, romance (with all its ups and downs) will be fleshed out in time. I agree with you on the Daenerys and Margaery point: that they're paired up with the protagonist because they come with a lot of military might and dragons (can't forget the dragons). Still, I wish Arianne Martell would show up more often. She too comes with military might in the form of Dorne and it would be interesting to see an author try to navigate the complications that come with the distance between Westeros' most southerly kingdom and the most northerly. As to Lady McGeneric MinorNobleOC having no impact on the game unless it's forced… I cannot disagree any more. Robb was to marry a Lady McGeneric MinorNobleOC from House Frey and ended up marrying another, even more, Lady McGeneric MinorNobleOC instead. Then he ended up dead. Every character has an impact on the Game of Thrones, some more than others, but none of it is forced. Lazy writing might overlook those minor characters and their impacts, but I try not to write lazy. For example, Robb could have, by that logic, married Alys Karstark instead and nothing would've changed in the North. Except House Manderly controls the North's biggest port and, now that the Riverlands hates the North's guts, serves as their easiest and safest way to import food. Add to that that Robb has no one to marry to the Manderly girls (because Wynafryd has a younger sister) and he risked displeasing House Manderly. That's a weakness that his enemies can exploit, a weakness like Tywin Lannister exploited when he used a slighted House Frey against Robb Stark in the books. All over some Lady McGeneric MinorNobleOC. Vassals matter a whole lot more than you give them credit for and marrying a Lady McGeneric MinorNobleOC from one of those houses might just safe your life in the Game of Thrones. I hope I've changed your mind, part of the reason I loved the books was because each and every character influenced the plot in their own way. It felt real and, though this story's one PoV character doesn't do it justice, I want to stay true to the depth and detail that went into the 'A Song of Ice and Fire' series.

 **Cat Beats:** It certainly seems like the North has a lot to face in the coming years, what with Aegon and Daenerys both presumably looking to bring them to heel. Luckily, winter is just on the horizon and those two will probably be at each other's throats before going after Robb's. He has time to build up his kingdom's strength, strength he desperately needs. Thank you for your thoughts!

 **Spectre4hire:** Good instincts! The Reach isn't as united as what Robb knows may suggest, but that struggle to get accurate information is integral to the Game of Thrones and the time period. Time will tell what actually happened in King's Landing and with Aegon, but it certainly made the south even more of a chaotic mess! Thank you for your thoughts and thank you for this review as well as all your others!

 **Guest:** I try to stay accurate to what I know of medieval period combat, which is basically an armchair-historian's level of knowledge combined with too many hours spent playing Crusader Kings. Some take days, some take hours. The one outside the gate took hours but the initial battle between the North and Tywin's forces took nearly an entire night. I'm glad you like the pacing and how I write it! As for Daenerys and Aegon and the fate of the Iron Throne, you're right in saying it won't be easy for either of them to claim it. The North is strong, right now, and Robb intends to strength it further. Whichever one wins is certainly going to have one helluva fight on their hands! The Vale is still progressing as it did mostly in canon, without Sansa there. Littlefinger would've still been able to escape there and Lysa probably still would've married him. He'll likely be in charge in all but name now. Sansa was put through a lot and her character has changed because of who and how she was rescued, not so much the naïve girl now… more of a devoted follower. I hope you liked the twist! Thank you for taking the time to write out your review! It was a blast to read and actually reminded me that Olenna Tyrell will no doubt have something to say once it's safe to travel north – she'll probably show up in the sequel.

 **X59:** Right now, Robb knows the Reach has switched sides and begun supporting King Aegon Targaryen. He doesn't know why, yet, or if Cersei holds the Iron Throne still. He's been traveling away from King's Landing, after all, and unless ravens are sent out to nearby holdfasts to bring news of a new King or how Aegon was defeated, he won't know what is going on. We live in an age where the spread of information is expected but in Westeros they have no such luxury. Either way, it'll make for an interesting situation once the fighting settles down… just in time for Daenerys to arrive, of course! Thanks for your thoughts and all your reviews besides!

 **Lord of Fleas:** ASOIAF is certainly becoming high fantasy… though it really did start that way, didn't it? With the very first chapter and that poor sod who got murdered by zombies-with-another-name. Martin has a way with writing and a focus on the Game of Thrones itself that makes you forget that, though. It's a damn fine series and I hope I've done it justice here! Thanks for your review!

Till next time,

Phailen


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